


Heart of a Mountain

by prodigalsanyo



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Falling In Love, Floof, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Harry Potter spoilers, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Mutual Pining, Older Man/Younger Man, Slow Burn, Time Skips, Vanilla Caramel Romance, author not aware of JT's military background
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:14:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 57,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21958723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prodigalsanyo/pseuds/prodigalsanyo
Summary: Canon Divergent AU: Better for a boy to run to the woods than into the city. Malcolm, 11, disappears. He grows up just in time to be Detective Arroyo's problem.[P R E V I E W]:Gil touched the small and tired face in the photo, glaring into stray puppy dog eyes.  Malcolm Whitly stood within his father’s grasp, surrounded by a placid natural scene with the family vehicle.  Orange numbers stamped on the photo marked the date on which the little rich boy was last seen alive.“What did you see?” Gil asked, a question that came too late.The mystery dogged him through Y2K, a new decade, the turn of the century, crossing over into the next millennium.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright
Comments: 25
Kudos: 61





	1. Adirondack Mountains, NY - Spring 1999

CHAPTER ONE

Adirondack Mountains, NY

Spring 1999

He accepted defeat when the clock struck midnight after his 11th birthday party. Man sized snow drifts had put the kibosh on the festivities; turn-out was dismal. Though he kept his eyes peeled for owls, ravens (and heck) ducks, no odd bird had delivered his letter from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. With the prospect of being spirited away from his parents expired, he put his contingency plan into effect.

Thus, in the spring of his life, Malcolm Whitly ran away before he chickened out.

His mother Jessica and his baby sister were swanning around the Hamptons while his father and his father’s friend, John, had taken Malcolm camping in the Adirondack mountains. Hours and hours of 87 North in his father’s station wagon. Martin Whitly had a great love of the outdoors and he made a great show of thrusting his firstborn into the wilderness. Malcolm didn’t want to go along with his father. 

Malcolm cooperated when John snapped their father son picture with a promise to get better shots of them in action. He pretended to sleep while John took up watch for the night; he nodded off, and was startled into mortified alertness.

John was nowhere to be seen while his father slumbered. Malcolm plucked up his courage, his bag of gear, and the knife which he’d bought in Jersey. Standing over his father, Malcolm wanted to thrust the knife into the corner of his father’s sleeping bag. Malcolm pictured his thwarted father yanking the pinned down sleeping bag all the while that Malcolm made his getaway. However, Malcolm knew that he needed everything he could carry.

The crickets and frogs were hushed in an early spring. Malcolm missed their noises; his future sounded unknown, lonely, and dreadfully quiet. The compass stuck to his clammy palm as he veered northeast where he knew the station wagon couldn’t follow. Sweating in his hiking boots, Malcolm trekked as quickly as he dared and doubled around to create ersatz trails, restricting his steps to places thick with supple, wet leaves. 

Perhaps stealing his father’s route map of New York state had brought ill luck to his travels. Malcolm changed his mind, lost his spirit, and became irrevocably lost in the spring wilderness blooming everywhere around him except for inside his keening heart.

He had layered up beneath his raincoat. When the rains came, Malcolm unpacked his hat which was shaped like a baseball cap, but loudly colored for safety and visibility in hunting. He didn't own a Giants or Yankees sports cap because he never cared for sports. In rainfall, he turned the cap backwards. The stiff bill protruding from his neon day-glo cap deflected water from soaking his neck and wetting his clothes. 

Any time when Malcolm heard the search helicopters, he ran for the shrubs or felled logs, until he was light headed from hyperventilating in the thinner mountain air. Malcolm had never gotten into this sort of trouble in his life.

Malcolm had a mildewed pamphlet of _Field Guides to Wildlife, Birds, Trees & Wildflowers of New York State_, printed in 1985. Such a lifesaving resource had cost him 10 cents from the library’s give-away pile. He also had his dog-eared copies of _My Side of the Mountain_ and _Hatchet._ He had left his comics behind as a boon for Ainsley to remember him by. His radio Walkman and headphones, he could not bear to part with. He shoved them in, sacrificing space that he should have reserved for toilet paper.

The fear of discovery made his trek more uncomfortable than Malcolm had anticipated. His knowledge of building a campfire sat cold while he waffled between the risk of getting dragged back to that station wagon or the miserable certainty of hiding in darkness. He relied on the map to find a freshwater lake rather than depend on the clouds to fill up his canteen.

The packets of Lipton’s chicken broth ran out first, leaving him to tuck jerky in his mouth and drink down fortifying beef broth. Malcolm very much missed chewing his nutrients and taking solid poops. He had two toothbrushes and not enough socks. While his ankles were stabilized by sturdy lacework, his boots were a size too large which brought on weeping blisters.

Despite the constant pinch of appetite, he slept without nightmares beneath galaxies winking through the thinner canopies of the woodlands. He ran across families of deer and watched their guileless eyes and twitching tails in spellbound reverence for their simple innocence. Bird song and the susurration of wind kissed foliage quelled the toxic runoff in Malcolm’s spirit. Fearfully, then with gusto, he was breathing the smell after rain and expelling grimey urban woes.

Malcolm never did find that lake. He wound up treading a stream which he explored up and down. The waters cleansed his skin, rinsed the dirt from his eyes and his mouth, and filled his parched ears with the welcome commotion of insects and amphibians living in the flow of life. 

He studied the field guide, commemorating to his heart, the shapes and patterns and colorations of things both great and small, with the babbling currents washing out thorny memories of Manhattan barbed into his scarred mind. He whittled a rod for himself and fished for hours while he poked at his little fire.

Malcolm enjoyed the benefits of prayer, particularly after cowering through a brute lightning storm. All the hairs on his body stood on edge; all the organic wiring that made up his biology screamed in mortal peril as he witnessed vengeful bolts of lightning menace the sky, strike the mountain and scorch the trees. Climbing the mountain to escape his sorrows put him closest to the storms of his life.

He developed more respect for Pikachu and for most electric type Pokemon though he favored legendary bird types.

“Thank you, um, God. Thanks for not zapping me down with lightning so I could eat. I wish I can change into a bird. I heard some gods can do that so. I’d be a good bird,” Malcolm concluded, palms clasped in prayer over cooked food.

He didn’t drink any water when he polished off his meager catch; he just wanted the taste of food in his mouth. He played one song on side A of his cassette tape, one ear in his headphones, and whistled bits of the chorus when he shut it down to conserve battery.

Without shelter, Malcolm was not safe; but he was free to enjoy the dandelion fluffs in the sunlight which filtered through yellow-green leaves, pods, and buds. He sang the wrong notes and did his exercise warm-ups from gym class and read his books in a lifelong game of hooky. The trees no longer appeared the same to him; he figured them out by their leaves and, in time, would know them by touch when the days shortened. Nature crept over the ruins of his heart. 

Once, Malcolm ran across the discombobulating sight of beige varnished wood stairs and black iron rails circling up to nowhere in particular. He briefly spun around the bottom stairs, arms flapped like wings, unsettled but curious as to how the white carpet on each step remained plush like snow. He would've taken the flight of stairs if he weren't pressed for shelter. 

The most disagreeable business of roughing it was the dirt, sweat, and humidity; especially as his hair grew out. Well maintained, his hair laid flat. Past a respectable length, Malcolm’s hair curled and twisted into crispy spirals that Malcolm would not abide. Feeling like a monster with snakes on its head, Malcolm grabbed what he could and sawed off his dreads with grimey fingers.

A run in with Mr. Blackbear inspired Malcolm to move off to less fishier pastures. After a screaming uphill mile run, Malcolm composed himself and prioritized finding shelter. He found steeply inclined mossy rock that had looked like a hill. Once he cleared away prickly vines and snarled roots, there was room for him to hunker down. The rock stayed toasty under his butt long after the embers of his campfire died down. When Malcolm tired of crispy critters for daily grubbing, he stuck his knife onto a thick branch using vines and bits of fishing line and he gave into the hunt.

Malcolm pushed through his father’s calm and knowledgeable voice in his head guiding his motions as he cleaned up his kill. His hands, previously trembling in hunger, steadied in anticipation of a decently roast rodent. Malcolm used the packets of salt and pepper he had grabbed at a pit stop.

While exploring, he found a barn partially reclaimed by the wilds. He couldn’t budge the dirt bike tarped inside. Malcolm settled for rolling out a rubber wheel big enough for a monster truck. He strapped on a bubblegum pink helmet, curled into the big wheel, and let himself have it, shouting blue murder, arms crossed over his chest and fists bunched into his armpits as the wheel turned and turned like the seasons. 

In the fall, he foraged yams and squash which the abandoned farmland yielded and he stashed them inside the barn, using gardening gloves he’d scavenged. By narrow chance, Malcolm survived when the blizzard hit. The blizzard brought drinking water but a dozen feet of snow wrapped around the barn until the boards stopped groaning with Malcolm shivering inside on a twisted ankle.

He’d injured himself fleeing a nightmare produced by the howling gusts (or was it coyotes?) and the chill which nipped his gloved fingers. Once the limp healed, Malcolm took advantage of the snow and shambled onto the roof to get a birds’ eye view of the rurals. On one of his night watches, Malcolm spotted lights clustered together, too constant to be stars along the horizon.

The winter leaned him out and his big toe blistered where his shoes cramped him. His toenails poked holes into his socks. Malcolm cut the elastic from the waist of his pants and fashioned a slingshot with them. All winter long he practiced slinging small rocks into the bubblegum pink helmet. When spring crept in, rodents within range of Malcolm were toast, literally.

As Malcolm had hoped, the cluster of lights were the storm lights of a two-storied get away cabin. He didn’t see any cars or campers parked on the gravel driveway. No covered garage to conceal vehicles. A collapsed canvas awning flapped against the cabin’s back door with cracked glass panes. Malcolm unscrewed one of the support rods and finished the job before hopping through. 

He grabbed tweezers and red nail polish and tiny sewing scissors and the brightest yarn he found. He hared off with canned ham and tuna. He stole the odd mismatched socks stiff on a laundry line and a moth eaten scarf. He swapped the Walkman's dead batteries for batteries in a TV remote control. Lastly, Malcolm swiped a bottle of Immodium and expired antibacterial ointment for an infected tick bite. 

With the snow melted, he dared not linger for company. Nor would he commit grand theft and bring the Rangers into his neck of the woods.

He regretted not grabbing from the cabin bookshelf as he fled for the trusty ol’ barn. Malcolm had needed to rip the covers and pages of his books for tinder; though he had sacrificed only the author introductions, forewords, and afterwords, it had grieved Malcolm to harm his dear books. But his choice at the time had either been the filler pages or kindling the tape inside his music cassette. 

A longer winter would have forced him to fold and tear away blank margins for burn-ables. His Field Guide on fauna and flora remained untouched, crucial as it was to his survival. He kept the pilfered food labels and used the cans for slingshot practice.

The inflamed tick bite scarred into a pock mark though the stolen ointment had expired. He also warded off subsequent infections with his stolen tweezers and drops of nail polish to suffocate any wood ticks sucking his blood. Red nail polish became useful for marking his own path. 

He also made a habit of brandishing a long branch whenever possible. Poking uncertain ground with his walking stick before venturing forth saved him more than his bare eyes and best guesses.

Malcolm needed to go barefoot for the summer when his boots pinched too much. Cleaning his nails became possible with sewing scissors to trim the whites. Spring was an easier time for gathering nibbles, thanks to the Field Guide. 

However, the kinder weather brought the danger of hunting parties. Often Malcolm had to cache his supplies in camouflaged nooks when he hunted and he needed to appear suitably scrubbed and washed on the occasions when he was close enough to hear their guns. He wore his neon day-glo cap on broiling days to disguise the hack job that was his hair.

He looked forward to abandoned campsites. Often he would collect thinned out toilet rolls, a lost hunting glove or a forgotten BIC lighter. His best find was a duffle filled with dirty laundry and sneakers that didn’t hurt his feet.

“Dad,” the younger and middling aged people would call out and the reminder hurt Malcolm’s chest.

When the frost returned, Malcolm stayed close to the cabins he had earmarked in his year round explorations. He risked the tips of his nose and ears to hang tight as the snows came in, blockading travel for vacationers. His top pick was an A-frame cabin which the owners departed prior to snowfall.

Wealthy folk overstocked and overbought. Malcolm was quite happy to house sit for them while they migrated to warmer countries. The more wuthering the storm, the more securely Malcolm squatted. He missed pasta, chicken nuggets, and soda. The first baths that he took were particularly scummy, leaving a yucky ring in the tub which Malcolm buffed out with AJAX once he drained the water. He gained an appreciation for parboiling in long baths with Christmas scented candles. He enjoyed reading different books after dark, the weirder the better.

One of the books was an illustrated softcover of “YOGA: 28 Day Exercise Plan.” He found a DVD taped inside the softcover. Once Malcolm got the hang of operating the DVD player on the home entertainment setup, he embarked on his 28 days of serenity. 

Day 1, puzzled by how abdominal breathing and stretching hurt his tight muscles, Malcolm struggled to touch his toes. Yoga felt very stressful despite the flute and the Tibetan bells backing up the yogi onscreen. He smacked his hands and elbows into furniture before he could wobble solely on his right foot with his left heel sliding along his thigh. 

Malcolm liked the messages behind the 28 Day program. Each of the daily exercises had a neat little saying for him to repeat aloud and to download into his brain.

“I have a growth mindset!” Malcolm huffed, the blood rushing to his head in a downward pose and making the luxury cabin spin.

“I can learn anything, know anything, or be anything. I can get better!”

With the discovery of packaged bananas and berries in the freezer, Malcolm helped himself to post yoga smoothies. He enhanced the smoothie recipe with vanilla ice cream. There were tubs of the stuff.

“Failing is not a bad thing. I see challenges as an opportunity to grow.” Malcolm held a diminished bag of frozen blueberries to his neck, the corners of his eyes wet after a painfully failed headstand. He sniffled in defeat and ate the blueberries as they thawed.

When storms didn’t knock out the power, Malcolm popped corn in the fireplace and played VHS tape recorded TV episodes of The Simpsons on a silver SONY Trinitron with a 36” flat screen. Malcolm dozed off to crackling fire and jokes he knew like old chums.

“Malcolm, if you’re out there listening… Merry Christmas, my love.”

“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Whit--”

“Jessica, please. I'm Jessica. I’m not the surgeon’s wife. Not a headliner. I’m a mom missing her baby boy. I’ll keep going. No more families are missing their children this time of year.”

Malcolm crawled from the dying fire to the cold light of the TV. He had to rewind the tape and to pause when the BREAKING NEWS in red scrolled across the bottom screen, interrupting the Simpsons TV broadcast.

The static crackled against his skin and raised the hairs on the back of his hand as he stared longingly, reduced to a black handprint on the face of his beautiful, glowing mother. He pressed play and put cheek and ear to the speakers and, for once in his life, listened to his mother. Nothing in nature sounded like her. He overplayed the tape to the point that a white line slashed his mother’s throat.

He couldn't wedge the tape inside his bag of gear and he feared damaging the VHS tape. He feared destroying the memory of his mother. When the blustery conditions thawed to a new year, Malcolm flipped to Side B of his music cassette and recorded over two songs on his Walkman, his thumb sore from holding down the red [REC] button to capture pure love pouring from the speakers and into his runaway heart. On freshly swapped batteries, his mother’s lovely recorded voice, sad and sweet, filled his ears as he marched.

Seeing her in that box fortified him with remembered purpose of why he had taken that first walk on the wild side, forsaken his boyhood, swerved onto a vagrant's trail, and sojourned a wayward direction as far from his birthright as his bruised heels would take an imprudent and intemperate prodigal such as Malcolm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baby, why'd you go? Find out next chapter.


	2. Upper East Side, Manhattan  - Winter 1998

CHAPTER TWO

Upper East Side, Manhattan

Winter 1998

Two officers of the 19th Precinct answered a service call placed from a Manhattan townhouse. Gil Arroyo, an immaculately bearded Puerto Rican man in his mid 30s, double parked on 69th, cut the light bar, and put on the cruiser’s blinkers. His partner Salvatore “Salvy” Fugaze, a stout, big mouthed, and darkly browed Italian in his 40s, called dibs on going inside the townhouse. But first, their high stakes game of Clue.

“Alright, alright, I got one for ya,” Salvy said, kicking off their guessing game. “Some low life’s been burgling the Mrs. twice a week. The Master bedroom. The master done it. Choke the boyfriend to death with a pair of silk stockings.”

“They don’t make nylons like your mother’s, Salvy,” Gil said. He countered. “I’m thinking basement, child--”

“You're a sick man,” Salvy quipped.

“Shuddup. Basement, child, Scary Movie Two. Richie Rich hiding under the blanket as we speak and he left the phone off the hook,” Gil said.

“You'll never catch deranged dirtbags without wild guesses, Gil. Get ready for me to call for backup,” Salvy replied, exiting their vehicle. He finished crunching his Rolaids and knocked on the townhouse door. Salvy glanced at the Crown Victoria, oddly reassured by the sight of Gil bowing his face over the steering wheel and saying his prayers.

A golden ray from a sparkling chandelier fell upon Salvy. He was face to face with the man of the house who wore a vivid red sweater.

“Good evening, sir. I’m Officer Fugaze. We received a call placed from this address at five of. Would you allow me to enter your home and ascertain that nothing is amiss?”

“Oh I think perhaps you’ve got the wrong house. All’s quiet on the eastern gate. Regular Tuesday around here,” explained the resident who stepped aside. He was a man who cut a distinct and appealing figure in his opulent townhouse. A widow's peak defined his thick, glossy, dark hair. The beginnings of middle age suited him well, his wisdom made apparent in a few ponderous lines crowning his brow.

“I’ll be out of your way in no time,” Salvy said as he passed through shiny, arched gates. The officer took in the grandeur of 20,000 square feet and felt the sweats. “Well, in the time it takes for me to hike over there and back again. Christ Almighty. What is your name, sir, for the books?”

Salvy caught his breath, feeling winded in a large and echoing corridor, when the man offered his hand. 

“Martin. Dr. Martin Whitly.” Dr. Whitly’s eyes flicked over the officer’s anxious countenance. “Do allow me to give you the tour and perhaps some refreshment? I’m about to take some tea myself. I have a killer blend reserved.”

“I’ll take a cuppa,” Salvy accepted.

“Excellent,” Dr. Whitly said, steepling his fingers. “I’ll return momentarily. Can I tempt you with complimentary shortbread? It’s lemony goodness.”

“Sure. Think you can wrap some to go in doilies? For my partner,” Salvy requested as he searched the premises. Dr. Whitly agreed.

A tired boy peeked from around a corner, big enough that he skirted the double digits in age. He was in monogrammed pajamas, the belt of his robe trailing like a sad tail. His presence confirmed Gil’s reasonable theory of how the cops got called. By Salvy's estimation, tonight would not uncover a scandalous murder or a grand heist, going by the gold veined white marble everywhere that a man could spit.

“Heya, sport,” Salvy greeted the boy. “It’s past your curfew. Someone called the police station and reported one little boy your age missing from his bed.”

“I’m not a biological sport. Father says that we are the same,” said the boy, glaring. “He will punish me for your presence here tonight.”

Salvy got a case of the willies under such unblinking scrutiny. 

“Run along to bed, kid. I’ll handle your pops. Ask him to go easy on you,” Salvy cajoled. He patted the top of the young boy’s head with his left hand; his right arm was unexpectedly sore. The boy watched the police officer go to his fate.

Dr. Whitly awaited with his specialty tea service. With a fine china cup extended in hospitality, the doctor’s brow raised when Salvy clutched his arm in the final act of accepting.

“Officer Fugaze, might I make a request?” Dr. Whitly questioned.

“Yeah, what?” Salvy gasped, an impending sense of doom weighing on his chest.

“Stick out your tongue. Say Aaaaah,” Dr. Whitly said bemusedly. A little smile played on his thin lips when he observed the chalky coating on Salvy’s tongue.

Salvy staggered as his world tilted.

“Not to alarm you, but you are presenting with an MI, my dear officer. Likely brought on by work stress. Do have a seat and radio your partner for an ambulance,” Dr. Whitly said. His sharp eyes followed his progeny Malcolm drawing nearer, unable to resist the spectacle.

“My boy, you have permission to enter my workshop and fetch my black bag. You know the one. Touch nothing else.” Dr. Whitly guided Salvy to a fancy chaise with creamy French chintz, entreating the officer to remain calm. He replaced the china cup and saucer on the low table, spilling not a drop in his steady hands.

“Gil, get the medics, I’m dyin’ here!!” Salvy sputtered into his walkie, making his last call for the night.

“Remain calm. Calm. Yourself,” Dr. Whitly said as Salvy’s partner shouted a pitched, testosterone fueled response. The sound was like adrenaline to Salvy’s heart, swinging him to the wrong side of death’s doorway. 

Fortunately, Malcolm was quick on his slippered feet.

“That’s a dear. Now,” Dr. Whitly sternly rounded on Salvy. “Officer, take your medicine. Before you code on this Milton heirloom and haunt our hallowed halls.”

Dr. Whitley popped foil in a blister pack and handed Salvy a plain wafer. Salvy blinked dumbly.

“Melts under your tongue, not in your hand,” Dr. Whitly said pointedly.

Dr. Whitly’s medicine glooped down his throat, a sweet burn that coated his insides and loosened the fist around Salvy’s heart.

“You’ll live to fight another day, Officer Fugaze. Not a scratch on you.” Dr. Whitly rolled down his sleeves, buttoned up the cuffs, and removed his stethoscope from his ears.

“Thank you, Doctor. Oh my God. Jesus, Lord Jesus,” uttered Salvatore Fugaze with the zeal of a born again man who felt the hand of God on him. “I know who made the call. It was Christ Almighty. He sent me to you. You are God’s own angel.”

When Gil rushed in, he was gobsmacked by Salvy ranting about the Eucharist and the blood. The cups of red Rooibos tea appeared full to the brim, but Gil had to ask.

“What is in your tea, sir?” Gil demanded of Dr. Whitly.

“Strong medicine,” Dr. Whitly answered. “Neither of us has partaken, I assure you. How very providential that your partner came to the house of a cardiothoracic surgeon.”

“Praise God. We were blessed tonight, Doc,” Gil agreed. He saw the boy, noticed the eyes. 

“Hello, young man. I’m Officer Gil Arroyo. G-I-L. Gil, like a fish." He pulled a funny face, sucking in his cheeks and making fish lips. He also put the edge of his hands to his cheeks and rotated his wrists a few times as though he were flapping his pectoral fins.

"Now pay attention. My last name is Arroyo. A-R-R-O-Y-O. Here to help.” Gil bent on one knee for the solemn child, a question on his lips. 

Little puppy dog eyes roved thoughtfully on Gil's name tag as Gil extended his large and open palm for a friendly shake. The boy’s hand quivered like a leaf despite Gil's steady warmth.

Salvatore got the young boy’s attention and blurted, “Your father is a good man, a hero. One day you’ll grow up just like him. Be proud of that, son.”

The elevated honor by which the law esteemed and addressed Dr. Martin Whitly deeply marked an impression on the little boy present. Malcolm yielded to his father's brilliant invincibility.

“I’m not your son,” he said, deadly serious. Malcolm formally broke off the handshake with Officer Arroyo. “Shall I dispose of the evidence, Father?”

“Cute kid,” Salvy said as Dr. Whitly chuckled and waved off the boy. Despite his grade school age, Dr. Whitly’s boy collected the tea things without shattering the china. Dr. Whitly watched him go with pride.

“He seems a bit cranky to me,” Gil said, unable to put his finger on it.

“Who? Malcolm? Earlier he played a game of strategy and dear old dad neutralized a pair of his pawns. You know how boys can be at a certain age when they want to beat you at your own game," said Dr. Whitly in an endearing and fondly attentive drawl.

Dr. Whitly asked them: "Do either of you gentlemen have children?"

"My wife and I are expecting!" Gil shared, enthusiastic, proud, and anxious.

"How far along, if you don't--"

"We're at sixteen weeks!!" Gil blurted. They had told the world.

"Congratulations, officer. You'll be a new and expectant father; that is plain to see. Well done. Wait until you hear a young boy calling you his daddy. Or a little princess," Dr. Martin sincerely spoke. He turned to Salvy. "How about you, sir?"

“A house full of brats under my old lady," Salvy said, crying at the mention of them. "Thank God thank God."

"Thank you so much for saving me. My family and I are forever grateful,” Salvy said before the paramedics arrived to retrieve him. “Let it be known that you, Dr. Whitly the surgeon, are friends with the police.”

“Oh pshaw, I saved you the cleaning bill,” Dr. Whitly said disarmingly. “You wouldn’t have enjoyed voiding your bowels in the aftershocks of a defibrillator.”

“No shit,” Salvy said, having the last word as the ambulance doors closed.

Gil tipped his hat to Dr. Whitly and headed back to his precinct to report the dramatic events of an innocuous service call. He couldn't get his mind off the surgeon's kid. 

When Gil punched his ticket, the lost puppy dog eyes followed him to the shower, into the sheets where he bedded his woman, and Gil saw them again when he faced his own mirror. He nicked himself shaving; Gil hadn’t made that mistake since he was a boy himself, a small brown boy who once blindly looked up to his old man, the authorities, and God but instead witnessed the devil in play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... Did Martin just win.
> 
> This is the point of divergence. The arrest that didn't happen. Every chapter after this one will focus on Malcolm or Gil.
> 
> This was my favorite chapter to write out of the entire story.


	3. 19th Precinct, Manhattan - Winter 2006

**CAST LIST & CHARACTER GUIDE**

[NON-CANON CHARACTERS]

[Salvatore "Salvy" Fugaze ](https://64.media.tumblr.com/e3be217fc730db19ffa3e88099c84155/70fc97757fd2c323-69/s400x600/7a0c63bcb84a8f7721e0c15ce4a9122fdc8906dc.jpg)

Salvy: OC. Older white male. Gil's partner as police in the 90s. Later on, Gil's Lieutenant.

[Detective Darius Jackson](https://64.media.tumblr.com/d6f7f7b6527eb6b8d4d852b53ef553c8/70fc97757fd2c323-f5/s540x810/2c3525fe6eb1978b209e998513e057d8a0a0f3d1.jpg)

Darius: OC. Younger black male, 30s. Gil's current work partner.

[Dr. Shanice Washington, MD](https://64.media.tumblr.com/287ec3880560923104c81f21da0a61a3/70fc97757fd2c323-0e/s500x750/a7ccdf9c3e24e5c1dd02af5a5b65177b6f2c31ce.jpg)

Shanice: OC. Younger black female, 30s. ME at the office of Forensics Sciences Bellevue Campus Hospital.

[Sunshine](https://64.media.tumblr.com/d12aefa15ab2fc27bf561ed68153b1e6/70fc97757fd2c323-a5/s540x810/da48c9b2f2dfa96287c06858e3a3578b1b102f0c.jpg)

Sunshine: OC. _S. petechia._ American yellow warbler. Full name: L'il Miss Sunshine. Fave song: Rockin' Robin

[Douglas Whitly 2006 (Age 7)](https://64.media.tumblr.com/4e90d8acbdcf1bf85626f3a8eb306446/70fc97757fd2c323-c0/s400x600/54421cd2c8013b6d9f7c5502a2fdad5d3a336a5d.jpg)

[Douglas, looking like dear old Dad](https://64.media.tumblr.com/98fdee8e1ffd3f452bc9f184189a95c8/70fc97757fd2c323-ac/s540x810/e9ea665471bd3a9200e6ce15419030931cf34e46.jpg)

[Douglas Milton, IV 2013 (Age 14)](https://64.media.tumblr.com/dc8a106639a1d7f106060ba9ab90c102/70fc97757fd2c323-ba/s540x810/27ba8de8881170a20a7409743e921a7d099827aa.jpg)

Douglas: OC. Malcolm and Ainsley's little brother, named after his uncle, presumably on the Milton side of the family. In this fic, Jessica is pregnant when Malcolm runs.

[CANON CHARACTERS]

Gil Arroyo 1999 (Age 36), 2006 (Age 43), and 2013 (Age 50).

[Jackie Arroyo](https://64.media.tumblr.com/5fe356eb905cc1cb5654a37272bd3310/70fc97757fd2c323-c1/s400x600/1903e6daf49222bebbc3346e15fe7ff604a5d28d.jpg)

[Malcolm Whitly 1999 (Age 11)](https://64.media.tumblr.com/78eff85f447718586ba014c670fd8d2a/70fc97757fd2c323-3c/s400x600/39e0e424af0bf661b89d38278a6ac7d9bb6cde41.jpg)

[Malcolm Bright 2006 (Age 18)](https://64.media.tumblr.com/a44ae40c84dcee9759622255cd991963/70fc97757fd2c323-b8/s400x600/d5ca23f20df9f03adfbf4b353dce641d60cdbfa0.jpg)

[Malcolm Bright 2013 (Age 25)](https://64.media.tumblr.com/10d2d020a84421713dc697282f5bf638/70fc97757fd2c323-2b/s500x750/152acfb669f323b6441805d3eb12675a83b0a468.png)

[Detective Owen Shannon](https://64.media.tumblr.com/cc0e36d1065b982aca5371e42cf289ab/a04fe95f211eec5c-6c/s400x600/a2987cf296707888925d04937be1e0637fa8a89a.jpg)

[Detective Ian Turner](https://64.media.tumblr.com/9c2b7c1d29551c8ba43562566e1860de/6f0dd308e96067cc-18/s500x750/6db318d9507ff4b756197ffd449b81b6f80c99f9.jpg)

Apologies for how incorrectly Detective (Chief) Ian Turner is depicted. In canonverse, Ian Turner is an openly gay black policeman. Author did not have streaming access to PSon and there was no reference picture for Ian Turner's actor on imdb.

[Detective JT Tarmel 2006 (Age 27)](https://64.media.tumblr.com/3cafeb90f0f878f7081f3fce6ea17afb/9ef250316f3514f5-8c/s540x810/8c95df09a2cdd8f66175b71444b6c7a78816df37.jpg)

Author was not aware of JT's military background. Assuming two tours in the army, JT may have enlisted in 1997 (Age 18). He could've completed an associate's or in the last year of a bachelor's degree program by September 11, 2001. Supposing an honorable discharge in 2005, it's not impossible that JT could have been hired and on probationary status by 2007. The point here is: I would've added veteran details had I known. Or brought JT into the story after Dec 2011 when the war in Iraq ended.

[Tally (Tarmel) 2006](https://64.media.tumblr.com/0c1d960545f6caec3a18c892e49922c3/9ef250316f3514f5-87/s540x810/69c79a91fd64b5bac68c6801068141148cc1329c.jpg)

Tally: Social worker, late 20s, Dominican, Jackie's cousin but sees Gil as family, meets JT. Fic takes place before she marries JT Tarmel. Fic makes Tally related to Jackie. This fic gives Jackie and Tally's characters the maiden name Herrera.

[Paul Lazar | John Watkins](https://64.media.tumblr.com/7405757eb58a8e3fa89e003ab12df755/70fc97757fd2c323-a4/s540x810/80503cc09de7297eeca2e9f2e4c14ea64f9ff708.jpg)

[ADDITIONAL NOTE]

Honorable mention to Dani Powell who would be a Bronx girl at her [quinceañera 2006](https://64.media.tumblr.com/f341c55f213e4e89d8faf40187b02095/70fc97757fd2c323-c8/s540x810/260279d39c5a0e161c047e96840a102f29a13fba.jpg) in this AU timeline.

**When tumblr goes, rip photo links.**

* * *

CHAPTER THREE

19th Precinct, Manhattan 

Winter 2006

The spirit of Christmas was in the air and once more Jessica Whitly was in Gil Arroyo’s hair. The past seven years had sprouted gray hairs at his temples. Gil no longer rode his beats; as a senior detective, he now investigated homicides. His former partner and current boss, Lieutenant Salvatore Fugaze, didn’t want to deal with Jessica. However, because of her husband’s adept actions at a critical health emergency, Salvatore couldn’t turn her away. The man found a meeting to be in, leaving Gil to receive the brunt of Jessica’s seven year itch.

“I’m one more year older. You know what I want,” Jessica said, curling up on Salvatore’s office couch. Her stiletto’s circled as she rolled her ankle, a hypnotizing show of leg.

“Happy Birthday, here’s your firstborn! I’ll settle for a body. If I could have his little bones. Doesn’t have to be the full set. No gift wrap necessary.” Her hands perched on the couch as she leaned boldly forward, deepening her voice, deepening the lines of her tastefully displayed breasts. 

Gil pitied her, earnestly. Back in ‘99, when there was hope, a hysterical and pregnant Jessica told Gil, “If my husband wasn’t thinking about getting off with his perfumed mistresses, I would have both my sons!”

Fast forward to present times: Ainsley, 16, and Douglas, 7, were the apples of her eye. Jessica was particularly rigid when it came to Douglas, scarcely permitting Martin to simply take Douglas out, relenting only if their trusted chauffeur, Adolpho, was available for spontaneous father-son ice cream runs, mano y mano cinema nights, dudes only pizza, etc. Never camping, no.

Gil suspected that Douglas would rebel as any growing boy would when the umbilical cord closed in like a noose. For all that Dr. Whitly irrevocably damned himself, Jessica didn’t have it in her to raise a healthy male.

“Do I make myself clear? Am I heard?” Jessica ranted. She dipped into her clutch and slammed a photo onto the lounge table, her scarlet and sharply pointed nails clacking the surface.

“You’re shouting into the void, Jessica. Go home and be with your family. You and Dr. Martin need to hold onto each other while you’re getting at each other’s throats.”

“We share the couch in therapy,” Jessica said, flawless smile. “My head pills are next to his head pills, like his and her sinks, his and her towels, his and her cellular phones, not that he calls me often. We’re doing life together.”

“Yeah, like you’re in the slammer,” Gil quipped. He sat with her and put his arm around her shoulders. “You don’t have to play it like the ol’ ball and chain. It really sounds like you’re doing your bit for the role of bitchy ex wife.”

“What do you know, Gil?” she huffed.

“Some of us,” Gil reminded her, “don’t have the option to mistreat our spouses. I dug Jackie’s grave. I want you to stop digging yours.”

Jessica leaned her cheek into his blazer. “I can’t stop. I can’t. I’m not finished, not with him.”

Comforting a gorgeous, fine woman like Jessica felt nice and Gil admired her spirit, but she wasn’t who he wanted to hold the most at the end of the day. They were unlikely friends, forced to watch out for each other as troubles piled up on the smoking craters of their wrecked lives. 

“So, where’s my invite? You throwing a birthday soiree?” Gil said to lighten things up.

Jessica gave him a date and time. “Don’t bother with a gift. I’ve got five smoothie kits.”

She left to go and pick up Douglas from his school; Gil saw that she was dressed to the nines to show off for all the Park Avenue house wives in their Cadillac Escalades. He grabbed the photo on the lounge table; once upon a time it was plastered all over the East coast before the media moved on to fresh human interest stories.

Gil touched the small and tired face in the photo, glaring into stray puppy dog eyes. Malcolm Whitly stood within his father’s grasp, surrounded by a placid natural scene with the family vehicle. Orange numbers stamped on the photo marked the date on which the little rich boy was last seen alive.

“What did you see?” Gil asked, a question that came too late. The loose end tickled inside his head from their one time meeting and over the years it became his own personal pet peeve that nipped at his heels when he wanted-- no, needed rest. The mystery dogged him through Y2K, a new decade, the turn of the century, crossing over into the next millennium.

He had to stop chasing ghosts when there was a monster in his sights. Gil shook off his disruptive talk with Jessica and headed to the medical examiner’s office at Bellevue. Though Gil braced himself with the strongest mints in his arsenal; though he promised himself an indulgent shower that would drain a small lake, the stench of death and detergents whacked his senses.

“Detective Arroyo! I thought I smelled your cologne. You're a breath of fresh air as always. Let me find Shanice for you.” Edrisa Tanaka was an eager beaver med school intern shadowing the medical examiner Dr. Shanice Washington, M.D.

“Hello foxy brown,” Gil said. Shanice appreciated the moniker; she was the type to change her hair with her emotions. Today was black braids dipped in red, speckled with silver bands. Very stunning gothic choice with her kohl eyes and falsies.

“Well if it isn’t Gilligan,” Dr. Shanice retorted.

He had been a bitter widower when Dr. Shanice was hired to the ME office and he was particularly tight lipped any time he or his partner Darius Jackson needed to confer with her on investigations. She called him Gilligan’s Island, on account of his unsmiling loner streak when she encountered him.

Then an old nemesis had risen from the smog and Gil pulled his head out of his sorry butt.

“You said you had bad news,” Gil said.

“What, no skipper?” Dr. Shanice asked, referring to Gil’s partner Darius. She was disappointed not to see the 6’3” broad and black man.

“I’ll have to do,” Gil said, stroking his beard.

“Go fish,” Dr. Shanice muttered, unimpressed. “No offense Gil, you’re a Swedish fish. I like ‘em enough. You do you and just keep swimmin, just keep swimmin Gil.”

Har har har. Gil met her big ol' smile with his mock outrage, pulling his face exaggeratedly to show that he got the joke and no actual offense was taken.

“I’ll send the big man your way next time there’s another vicious murder,” Gil said, following her into her office.

“This murder plenty vicious for this lady. Injection point into her iliac crest, and a third near her heart. Identifiable signature work of the Surgeon,” Dr. Shanice reported, sharp as a tack to one's funny bone. Sometimes she made Gil's brain go numb, his head overloaded from multiple lightning rounds of her expertise. She thrust a thick manila envelope at Gil.

“What makes you think this one’s not a copycat like the last guy?” Gil asked shrewdly. His partner Salvatore had made his career with the arrest of Desmond Reeves.

“Singular and precise points of injection were found on this poor girl. Reeves was a bruiser,” Dr. Shanice explained. “He was better at compounding the poisons than making the clean kills. His victims, all men by the way, showed signs of struggle.”

Dr. Shanice put her hands together on the table and bowed her face. “The Surgeon had her stewing in hellfire before the peripherals shorted and shut ‘er down without any abrasions or restraint marks.”

“He’s back,” Gil said. “What is it, Shanice?”

“The toxicology results.” Shanice appeared disturbed. Her glib words failed her.

“What, did the tests get screwed up?” 

Gil’s assumption rankled her professional pride. “No, never happen with my team! We’ve identified the composition of the murder cocktail.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“The results of his newest patient are identical to Magda Winslow, went missing in ‘92. I’m not an investigator, Gil. But knowing that his earliest known victim Ms. Winslow was the first of his quartet and he uses four distinct formulas in exact order each cycle...”

“The Surgeon’s back for an encore,” Gil said. “If he’s starting over again with our newest as the first, then we can expect he’ll work over three more victims before he fades into his off season.”

“I don’t want them on my slab, Gil. It ain’t right when healthy folk turn up in this jawnz, in good shape except they dead,” Dr. Shanice said.

“Me neither. Thanks Shanice. I’ll run these over to our profiler A.S.A.P,” Gil promised.

No sooner did he prepare copies was Gil bothered again at work.

“Gil, your presence is requested in room 6. It’s a runaway who axed for you by name,” Darius called over from his desk which was decked with waxed holly and fake spruce trimmings. “Gil, ya heard?”

“The schmuck in room 6 needs to wait. Not like they’re going anywhere,” Gil said. He rifled through the copies, making quick notes that Shanice had told him but didn’t write down.

Darius came to his desk and extended his arms. Squarely jawed with a large brow and round lips, Darius had no hopes for a career in comedy because everyone took him seriously. “This’ll get done. Get to it.”

“You’ll do it?” Gil pressed.

“It’ll get done.” 

“You’re giving it to JT, aren't you?” Gil had his suspicions.

Gil wasn’t a small man but an encouraging back pat from Darius had him a third of the way over to interrogations, skimming the bullet points memo. He strode beneath the sparkly holiday banner which read “MERRY AND BRIGHT!” Next time, Gil determined, he would send Dr. Shanice her manwich AKA Darius. 

Today was a stinker. The pungent smell made him slow; it reminded him of a farm show with the horse droppings. Gil resignedly opened up the funky can of worms waiting for him in room 6.

He encountered a person bundled in a hooded anorak and a moth eaten scarf. He could tell by the squareness of the person’s hands and by the width of their wrists that it was a young white male. A pert, chapped, red nose stuck out from beneath the young man’s hood. Gil shut the door and breathed through his mouth while his nose adjusted to the odor.

“Feral Saves Local Woman Lost: She Took a Hike & Found a Man,” Gil read. “You him? In the papers?”

“I’m 18 and I want to be released.” The runaway spoke with a softer voice that was possibly higher pitched due to his agitation.

“Show me ID and you’re free to go. Doesn’t have to be a driver’s license,” Gil said.

The anorak wiggled in its chair. “I’m 18 and I want to be released.”

“Let’s start with your name,” Gil requested. “That would help me verify your age, that you’re old enough to walk out of here, that you’re a free man.”

“Bright.”

“Bright?” Gil repeated. As in Merry & Bright. He did not have time for this.

“Call me Bright.”

“Mr. Bright. Next question: How do you know me?” Gil asked, picking up the pace. He planned to kick the guy loose and direct him to a shelter. “Says here that once the girl was rescued, you resisted state police when they asked you to give a written statement of how and where you found her. You fled rather than answer questions, despite doing no wrong. You were shuttled from upstate to our precinct when you name dropped me.”

“And will you take your hood off and have this conversation with me?” Gil added.

“OK but… please don’t take my Sunshine away,” Bright pleaded. He flipped down his hood. A yellow warbler peeped out of his tangled brown hair. Bunches of hair caught in his shaggy beard. Bright’s sunken eyes gleamed as his precious little friend flitted its wings. 

“Her full name is Li’l Miss Sunshine. Any time when she sang I had to sing along or whistle loud so we wouldn’t get separated by the trooper,” Bright explained. Gil wanted to toss his memo in the air and tag out with a bleeding heart social worker. This birdbrain needed services.

“Where do I know you, young sir?” Gil asked. The premonitory warning in his gut overrode his knee jerk irritation at Bright’s peccadillos.

Bright pulled a plastic baggie from within his anorak and unwrapped pages from a book bundled together with yarn. He flapped the pages until a patch of leather thudded the table top. As Gil requested, Bright produced photo ID, sliding it over for Gil’s edification.

Gil held the leather sleeve encasing a 5th grader's blue and gold student ID from Trinity Preparatory School. His blood ran cold.

“Help me, Officer Arroyo,” said Malcolm Whitly.

“I have your mom Jessica on speed dial--”

“NO! I’m 18! I exercise my right as an adult to leave! No phone call! No news media! I was 11 in 1999. It’s 2006, it’s been 2006. I'm no longer a minor. Don’t drag my family into this.” The limited portion of his face not covered in hair blotched red in his fury.

“Do you know what kind of hell you’ve wrecked on your poor family!!” Gil slapped the photo ID onto the table. He stormed out of the interrogation room, slammed the door, and retrieved the photo given to him by Jessica Whitly.

Gil smacked the photo down onto the tabletop in room 6 as well. If the table weren't bolted down, he would've flipped it on pure adrenaline. “I attended your funeral. What the hell, kid?!”

“My father’s the surgeon,” Malcolm said, flicking a cursory gaze over the photo.

“I know that! He saved my boss’s life. When Dr. Whitly reported you missing, we got involved with Troopers. Your folks leaned hard into me and Salvy but we weren’t ever able to pay your father back. Give me a damned good reason I shouldn’t bring this whole outfit down on you!!!” Gil went berserk.

“My father’s the surgeon,” Malcolm said. “I called the police almost eight years ago. That’s how I know you.”

“What did you see that night?” Gil asked, chilled to the bone as he spoke with the wisp of a boy who had haunted him, who might disappear on him in the next moment.

“My father’s the Surgeon,” Malcolm said and Gil finally heard him. “Lots and lots of people go missing in the city. It’s better if I stayed gone.”

"Wait a minute, wait a… your father is The Surgeon who's been murdering folks since '92?" Gil demanded.

If Manson killed the 60s, then Whitly wasted the 90s.

"I don't know how long he's been a murderous sociopath. He could've been broken long before meeting my mother," Malcolm said. "When I was 10, I found his… collection. Proof of what he did. He kept it in our basement. He hid it again after police were called."

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” Gil asked. He perched on the edge of the table and folded his arms, leaning in Malcolm's direction despite the smell burning Gil’s nose hairs.

“I called the police,” Malcolm said. “If the police couldn’t stop my father, who would? He had you eating out of his hands in minutes. I was grounded for pranking NYPD.”

Malcolm's hand shook the table. He clutched the stricken appendage to the front of his anorak and Sunshine nuzzled her distraught human.

"He made me clean his workshop top to bottom while he was at work. He moved his collection. I checked. I missed my chance to help you catch him," confessed Malcolm.

“I’m… sorry. We let you down years ago that night,” Gil said, choking up in his remorse. “We failed the people who your father killed between then and now. I can’t fault you for running to the hills.”

Malcolm swiped at his cheek. He pushed away the photograph of himself as a child putting on his happy face with his serial killer father. “The Surgeon had a friend who took this picture of us. I booked it while John was getting the hunt ready for us. They were going to teach me how to kill. Find the station wagon, the one in this picture.”

Gil realized he had the key witness to at least two dozen unsolved murders on his hands--including the poor girl he had seen earlier-- a partial license number to a blue '96 Buick Roadmaster Estate and that he was in way over his head. He needed back-up.

“Put my father away, Officer Arroyo, and I can go home,” Malcolm entreated, his face breaking just like Gil's heart. “Or I’ll be floating up East River. Then who’s going to watch my lady bird?”

* * *

Lieutenant Fugaze's Office

19th Precinct, Manhattan

Winter 2006 

Owing to Malcolm's aggressive body odor, Salvy stood very briefly in room 6 when Gil and Darius coached Malcolm into submitting a written eye witness account on the true identity of the Surgeon, a notorious killer whose cruel exploits were immortalized in urban legends and front page headlines. Afterwards, Salvy gave Gil a piece of his mind.

"You want me to sign off on witness protective custody for Looney Toons and Tweety Bird?" Salvy harrumphed, referring to Malcolm and his song bird.

"When he agrees to accept witness protection, yes," Gil said. "He's leery about the psych eval."

"As he should be. Whitly Jr is certifiable," Salvy said.

"He's a smart kid."

"Too bad he's crazy," Salvy retorted.

"Cut him some slack, boss. He saw things and heard things. No wonder he ran for the hills. By all accounts, Malcolm should be dead. We have a stronger case against his father beyond circumstantial and 'what if' with his extraordinary testimony. We have angles and a lead."

"We have a delusional truant who aged up," Salvy said. "Whitly's defense can poke holes in Junior's credibility. It's Looney Toons and Tweety Bird, for crap's sake!"

Salvy shook his bottle of aspirins. "Show me a sane man who will accept protection from PD. I can work with a prosecutor’s witness. I can't work with some miscreant you'd peel off the E train."

"He'll say yes," Gil assured.

"Suppose he agrees to a safe house. Is the kid housebroken?" Salvy asked.

Anyone else but Gil would think that Salvy was callously unsympathetic to Malcolm's plight. Gil, as his former long standing partner, took the little digs in stride. Salvy was vulnerable and pissed over the unconfirmed possibility of Dr. Whitly manipulating Salvy’s heart attack to deflect police investigation. 

Salvy trusted Dr. Whitly which intensified his vindictive leanings. Gil was rightly concerned that Salvy would work himself into a stroke from the shame and doubt that followed broken trust. 

"Salvy, you better watch your blood pressure. You don't look so hot," Gil observed.

"Don't worry about me, Gil. I've got it worked out. An evil guy mighta saved my life but I’m indebted to Christ Almighty for having mercy on my poor little heart. I owe this city a captured murderer. No Whitly is getting more from me than what duty calls for."

Salvy confided in Gil, a habit that professional distance couldn't break.

"I want to help your boy out. But I can't let my heart gum up the works. We cannot baby him with the kinda protection that he should've got back then. He's here and I can only give him as much help as I would for a random coming in today."

"I'll take it, Salvy. Think you can keep this under wraps the next time Jessica Rabbit slinks in here?" Gil asked, casually referring to Mrs. Whitly. 

"Go away and don't come back without a solved case," Salvy ordered, choking down the aspirin. His glass of water pounded the desk like a judge's gavel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cuz this is fiction, I choose not to make Bright a kleptomaniac or serial thief. I do not condone his repeat offenses of thievery, property damage, and trespass. Ok reality check processed. I'm only interested in Malcolm stealing Gil's heart.
> 
> About the station wagon: The station wagon in that canon picture of Martin and Malcolm camping is NOT a blue station wagon. I used the car make and model that made me hardcore 90's nostalgic. Flouting canon, ah hah!
> 
> About my OCs, I felt like my AU world building needed more people. I hate when too many OCs water down screen time for my fave characters. Yet here I am. Hopefully the Cast List & Character Guide with photo links and quick stats is helpful. THANK YOU AO3!!! 
> 
> At first, I only did photo links for my OCs, but then I thought it would be fun to throw up photos of Malcolm and Gil throughout the years. I was so happy to find that pic of Lauren Velez, it felt like a 90s Lifetouch photo of Jackie Arroyo with the studio color background. Then I got way obsessed with Lou Diamond Phillips.
> 
> Why Salvatore? Salvy. He's the OC that broke the Prodigal Son continuum LOL. I needed an insensitive guy who would not have listened to a subtly abused ten year old child. As an unlikable character, Salvy can make unpopular decisions that advance my plot. Not to mention, because Gil did not arrest Dr. Whitly, Gil is not fast tracked to Lieutenant. One of the ways that I lowered romantic barriers between Malcolm and Gil was to demote Gil. ^_^ Sorry Gil, but you are not too good to drive Malcolm around. [After seeing the promo for S01E11 though, I get why Gil doesn't want chaotic fucker Malcolm anywhere near his whip.]
> 
> Dr. Shanice is ME because Edrisa would either be finishing her medical residency or hustling for her ME practice license, far from being the offbeat expert we know. I wanted to see a black woman in a white coat. 
> 
> Darius Jackson is Gil's partner because, pitted against two serial killers, Gil needs a partner who is stronger and more fit but not wet behind the ears. I also want to see a dark black man do a damned fine job. JT, in his late 20s, not enough experience.
> 
> Tally is technically a canon character, but I'm expanding her role as Jackie's cousin and Gil's close friend.
> 
> I added Douglas because I pictured Martin breeding his wife to make her dependent on him and to undermine her energy after his fuck up of losing Malcolm. I also liked the idea of Jessica pregnant the same time as Jackie. It reinforces Jessica's friendship with Gil and alters their chemistry for this fic which I need cuz like Gil x Malcolm.
> 
> I added a random picture of a bird for Sunshine cuz I was like... Reader not gonna care about the bird. Then after a beat, I realized, oh yes the fuck they will, tweet tweet muthafucka.


	4. Tweedle Dee, Tweedle Dumb

Malcolm agreed to the psychological evaluation mandated for witnesses seeking protective custody. Prior to his appointment with the psychiatrist, Malcolm needed shelter away from his family.

Salvatore charged a junior detective to take Malcolm to a private residence in Brooklyn and watch him.

“I don’t believe this,” muttered the junior detective named JT Tarmel, a mixed 27 year old black Hispanic man with his afro buzzed into a longer military haircut that faded into his ears. JT was 6’ tall and thickly built, with round cheeks and a curved jaw that made him look boyish despite his stature and big bones. He shaved his facial hair into a petite goatee to offset his baby face.

JT observed a shorter white guy hanging around the office Christmas tree, a couple of glittering turtle doves in the twinkling branches and a bird in hand. His colorless cheeks were windburnt and flaky, the skin around his nostrils peeling in gray flakes. Gnarly hair stuffed an ashy knit winter hat. Split hairs fell inches below his matted brown and unshorn beard.

"Hi," said the white dude affably, waving his creased black glove in the air. The yellow bird perched on his other glove tweeted its own hello.

“Who the hell--” JT recoiled from the stench which grew more apparent with proximity.

“JT, I’d like to introduce you to Bright, and his little friend Sunshine. They’re quite a pair. Take 'em home,” Gil said, thrusting his spare key to JT. "You can have whatever's in my fridge.”

"I gotta drive him to your place, Gil?" JT asked.

Gil threw a couple twenties at JT. "This isn't a drop off. Keep him company until I arrive. Don’t take your eyes off of him for anything. Buy lunch, there's plenty of food joints."

Gil stepped closer to JT. “Don’t let him lose you. Bright agreed to help us but at any time he can change his tune and fly the coop.”

“How bad do we need this carnie, sir? Would help if I knew who he is,” JT asked.

“Get to know him and he’ll sing for you,” Gil said, smiling knowingly as JT sighed resignedly. JT didn’t have the experience necessary to swing with gallows humor.

“Can we switch cars, Gil? I’m still paying mines off,” JT suggested. “I can’t be flea bombing my ride from now to Valentine’s Day.”

“He doesn’t have fleas,” Gil said. They both watched the yellow warbler pecking its beak under Bright’s winter hat, causing a fallout of dandruff. The look on JT's face was pleading,'Not the honeys, man. The honeys.'

Gil patted JT’s shoulder. “Vacuum your interior and your draggin' wagon should be fine. Your watch starts now.”

“Whoa,” Bright said, shuffling his filthy sneakers on the salt crusted asphalt. He was eyeing up the junior detective’s pride and joy, last year’s model of the Lotus Exige. The wintry residue of dirt and ice didn’t hide its distinct shape.

“This is the JT Cruiser,” said JT, introducing his vehicle as one would a cherished friend. As with many hot rods, the Lotus Exige sat low to the ground, its main body gleaming jet black with two thick yellow bands striping the hood and the roof and two slimmer yellow bands slanted like bolts of lightning over the rear tires. The headlights reminded Malcolm of glowing snake eyes.

JT slid in, revved up, and then laid on the passenger’s seat to push open the door for Bright. Scented air from the fresheners attached to the heating vents wafted in the frigid winter.

“What’sa matter?” JT asked when Bright hesitated. 

Bright took in the polished steering wheel, the pristine dashboard, the compact displays, the absolutely spotless interior, and the leather seats which were too new to be warped by people’s weight.

“This is a really beautiful car. I don’t want to track my mess into it. Give me a minute,” Bright said. He pulled plastic grocery bags from the pockets of his anorak and wrapped his shoes inside them.

“You a’ite, Bright. I can Febreeze it,” JT said, endeared by Bright’s oddity. He tapped the volume dial, unmuting his mp3 player, and the music of Trapt roared from his speakers.

_FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK_

_“Back off I'll take you on! HEADSTRONG to take on anyone! I know that you are wrong! HEADSTRONG we're headstrong! Back off I'll take you on…!”_

As JT shifted gears and rolled his Lotus down the streets and avenues, he and Bright banged their heads to distilled notes of rageful defiance. However, as JT accelerated up the ramp to FDR Drive, Bright hunched in his seat and pointed his face down to the weatherproof mat. Sunshine perched on the plastic swaddling Bright's sneakers as she rustled and chirped.

“C-can I crack the window?” Bright requested.

JT rolled down the passenger window, cut the heat, and changed the playlist on his mp3 player to Aventura’s album, God’s Project. Soothing bachata drum rolls and tenderly plucked notes of a Spanish guitar filled the car.

“Better, man?” JT asked, treating Bright like a ticking bomb.

“Yeah, fine. The cold helps. I’m sorry, I was fine at 20 miles per hour, but above 50, I lost it. I’m fine, I’m fine,” Bright insisted. His cheeks turned red in the rush of chilled air which was a damn sight better than green.

“Have you ever been in a car?!” JT asked incredulously. His curiosity about the mysterious character in his low slung ride was going off like drum rolls.

“I was in the troopers’ truck but I slept through most of it to avoid motion sickness,” Bright admitted. “Before that, I have not ridden a car for years. I grew up walking everywhere.”

“You from the boondocks, Bright,” JT said, pity softening his guard. He couldn't hate someone who came from nothing.

“Believe it or not, I was born in the city before I… moved. To the middle of nowhere. Not a lot there, but I was happy with what I had,” Bright replied.

“Buck up, man. Who knows? You might get to go back,” JT said.

Bright shook his head. “No, once I do what I have to, I won’t get to come back. Not for a long time.”

He lightened up when traffic on FDR kept them planted for several minutes in view of the skyline. “You know what’s funny? You’re driving me down memory lane, Detective Tarmel. The finance buildings, the seaport, and look! There’s ol’ Brooklyn and behind her the Manhattan bridge. It’s almost what I remember but something’s off.”

JT thoughtfully scanned the horizon. “I know what you mean. Things ain’t been the same since twin towers. It’s not a smoking hellhole no more, but you wanna steer clear of that downtown area.”

“Where were you when it happened?” Bright asked in a wavering tone. “I wasn’t in a good spot to hear about it and when I finally switched on a working TV, I missed out. Cried for a week, not that it did any of those poor, poor families any good.”

“I was in class, sweating a quiz. Prof sent us on our way and threw out our scores. Couldn’t get home for hours,” JT said. “But I didn’t give a crap, cuz how many were never gonna come home?”

JT merged onto the bridge. “Whatever you’re here for, Bright, you best do it. Welcome back to the real world.”

“Thank you Detective Tarmel,” answered Bright.

“Call me JT. You hungry? I know a Shawarma place.” JT changed his mind, revving up as he was inspired. “Hold up, no, I can do you one better. A plain ol’ deep dish. Their garlic knots are the bomb, too, you can peel ‘em apart.”

“Oh, my God. Option B. I haven’t had pan pizza since... forever,” Bright confessed.

* * *

Gil walked in on the pervasive smell of fire roasted tomato and cheese; it was all over the apartment which once belonged to his wife Jackie. CNN was playing in his empty living room while Casey Kasem and this year’s Top 40 hits were a bit louder coming from the kitchen area. Bright wore grey sweats bearing the I Heart NY catchphrase. His hair was rolled into a towel. Cornmeal from the freshly made pizza crust dusted Bright’s beard.

Sunshine the warbler was losing its mind over a small pile of Gil’s sunflower seeds. Gil was disappointed to see the carry out box scrapped in his recycle bin while JT and Bright killed their plates.

“Thank you, JT. I see our bird is happy. Nice job. You’re free to go,” Gil said. He looked over JT’s shoulder. “What’s in the garbage bag?”

“We’re trashing the coat, Gil. It’s not worth the quarters to boil out the smell. I know you got your own washer but this thing will funk it up,” JT answered. He snagged the black bag pooled onto the kitchen floor. “I’ll dump it on my way out.”

“Good night, JT! Thanks for everything. I hope I see you around,” Bright said with a heartfelt wave.

“Maybe when you’re out of trouble, ya nasty,” JT said, deadpan. He gave a pointed look to Bright before exiting to air out his car.

Gil reclaimed his spare key from the kitchen partition where JT had placed it. No sooner did he go to his fridge did Malcolm, using a dish towel, pull a warm plate from inside the oven onto the vacant burners.

“Detective JT thought you’d like a slice or two,” Malcolm said. He looked beat and his yawn confirmed his exhaustion but he remained sitting at the table while Gil forked down hot bites of pizza. 

“Do you usually go to bed at sundown?” Gil asked.

“Uh huh,” said Malcolm sleepily. He blinked fast to keep his lids open.

“Go to bed. I stay up late,” Gil ordered. “I think I have a spare toothbrush, compliments of my dentist.”

“JT bought me an overnight kit. I’m set,” Malcolm answered. He paused mid-step on his way to the bathroom. “Wait. Shouldn’t I take the couch?”

“You heard me. Go to the bed. Insert yourself between the covers and the sheets. Pillow goes under your head,” Gil said smartly. “I’ve got the couch. You need me to tuck you in?”

“Sounds like I’m not the only one who needs an earlier bedtime,” Malcolm said. In socked feet, he noiselessly tread Gil’s wood floor.

Gil bit down the urge to yell at Malcolm to wash his beard, reminding himself that he only needed to put up with his special guest for a couple weeks. In a worse scenario, the wait for a psychological evaluation could have taken a whole month, especially in the holiday rush. Soon enough, NYPD would ship out Bright to a safe house while they built a snare around Dr. Whitly and his alleged accomplice John. Gil wanted Bright nowhere in Manhattan, least of all where Jessica Whitly was liable to muck up the works.

Gil didn’t bother with the pull-out bed folded inside the sofa. He put himself in between Bright and the only clear exit out. The bedroom window was accessible to a fire escape but Gil had already stapled translucent plastic to the frame as a means of blocking the cold draughts. Bright would have to make a lot of noise to cut away the plastic and jimmy at the secondary latches to escape.

In the middle of the night, Gil’s eyes winked open when his bedroom door creaked. Sunshine’s chirping also tipped off Bright’s movements which were eerily light in step. The young man already figured out which boards groaned down the short hallway. Gil heard the click of his stovetop gas burners and the clink of Jackie’s kettle.

The fridge was opened, its soft glow illuminating Bright’s quest to make tea without waking Gil. Bright smiled shyly like a boy with his hand in the cookie jar when Gil flicked the light switch.

“Did you go to sleep at all?” Gil asked, clearing his throat a few times. He blocked the young man from scurrying out the kitchen. 

“I didn’t,” Bright said.

“Go back to bed then. I mean it,” Gil insisted. “I need you of sound mind when the shrink gets a hold of you. Sleep deprivation makes anyone sound crazy.”

“I need a couple of your belts. For keeps,” Bright said. “Sometimes I move around in my sleep and it helps when I tie myself down.”

“Are you serious?” Gil questioned. He cussed. “This will complicate your placement in witness protection.”

“It’ll be fine. I’ve had this issue since I was a kid living at home with my father and when I ran away. A belt around my ankles, I don’t go far. If I buckle down one of my arms to your headboard, I’m safe as anything,” Bright explained. “I’ve survived a thousand plus nightmares.”

“Show me how it’s done,” Gil said. 

Bright agreed with a caveat. “Can you leave right after? I don’t sleep around other people. It’s nothing personal. I don’t sleep with anyone.”

He was so keyed up that Gil didn’t doubt it.

Gil donated a thick leather belt which was a remorse buy as it dug into his sides. He also handed over the belt which he wore once to Jackie’s wake and never again.

“Do you have a switchblade or pliers?” Bright asked. “I need to punch a few holes.”

Once Bright modded the leather belts, he strapped his legs together. Gil noticed that he didn’t buckle the straps overly tight, leaving room for blood circulation while making it impossible for the loops to slide past his socks. The belt intended for his arm was triple knotted to the headboard with the end of the buckle digging into Bright’s wrist.

The headboard banged the wall a few times as Bright yanked harshly, grunting with all his strength. He was satisfied when the leather squealed but held up to his flexing. “I prefer rope for my arm because I can manage an icicle hitch around a tough root or a rolling hitch on a low branch. You can sleep decently like this. Just stick your knife in the ground when sleeping rough.”

Malcolm jerked upright, his arm bent back, as he remembered an additional detail. “I also need a clean bandanna or anything that’s long, thin, and absorbent like cotton. I’ll grind my teeth to nothing if I can’t tie a nice cloth between my maxilla and mandible. Kinda like a sports guard which I can’t get in the woods.”

Gil put his face to his hands, overwhelmed by how deeply and unconsciously Malcolm's upbringing damaged him. “I’m so fucking sorry, kid. That’s hell.”

“The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven,” commented Bright. “Do you think I would have been in heaven with my father ruling over me and controlling my every move?”

“You went and jumped from one circle of hell into another,” Gil said. “You didn’t miss being in school with your friends? Playing with your little sister and your baby brother? You didn’t think about your own mother?”

Gil couldn’t help himself, couldn't resist his own nature as opportunity called. With a wild young man tethered to his bed, Gil was favorably positioned to get what he wanted from Bright, what only Bright could give to him. A more ideal situation to wrestle out muchly desired answers might never present itself to Gil. His line of questioning devastated Bright.

“I have a baby brother?” Malcolm gasped. “Oh, man. I would have come back if I had known. It never occurred to me that Dr. Whitly would bother creating another son when his first one rebelled.”

Remorse cast a pall on his thinned and fatigued features. Malcolm would need several stacks of deep dish pizza to fill out.

“How old?” Malcolm uttered, choking on his guilt.

“Doug will turn 8 next year. He’s in second grade,” informed Gil.

“Father will be taking him to museums semi-regularly, watching bad but good sci fi double features, and reeling him into the sciences,” Malcolm speculated. “Then the field trips to gardens, fishing spots, animal farms. Or errands to the butcher’s when Dr. Whitly decides to cook a recipe. To a market where live kills are done on site. Learning opportunities.”

Malcolm’s knees drew up against his chest as he balled up; his shaggy beard scratched the covers. “Eventually hunting, to cultivate a love of nature and a special interest in living things.”

“What a bastard,” Gil said, mad enough to spit. “Your father is the twisted one, not you.”

“I’m the son of a bastard,” Malcolm said, his back shaking as he laughed. “You know, the night when I ran away, I was dumb as heck. I had my knife and my father was sleeping. Looking back, I could have ended it. I didn’t think so I ran.”

“You’re a good boy,” said Gil. He put his hand on the back of Malcolm’s neck, not squeezing or grabbing, letting the weight of his touch settle Malcolm’s heart thrumming hysterically. 

“Good and evil are childish terms,” Malcolm argued. Though his lips dismissed Gil’s encouragement, his body calmed. “I didn’t choose between good or evil when I was on my own. I had to decide to be strong or to be weak. It’s not goodness that stopped me killing my father. I was weak. I’m not strong like my father.”

“You have more of your mother in you. Jessica is about as sharp as a bowling ball but she hasn’t given up on her family. She wants you back,” Gil said. His thumb rubbed at Malcolm’s nape. “She didn’t kill your father when you gave Dr. Whitly the slip. You think it didn’t take all her strength not to straight up murder him?”

“Eugh, I almost felt bad for my father. Yikes,” said Malcolm. His lids stayed down as he put his head down on his knees. He dreamed that goodness existed beyond the realm of the conceptual. He dreamed that goodness was as real as two arms lowering him into a warm bed and giving him cover.

Gil had himself a lie down while he kept an eye on Malcolm who sank into genuine slumber. He was unsure when he followed suit into Snoozeville. The commotion of Malcolm pulling at his bonds like a man possessed made Gil roll off his queen sized bed into a crouch, a purely instinctive move.

“No… don’t go. Don’t ope--” Malcolm’s ravings cut off as he struggled. If he screamed, Gil would wake him. Instead, Malcolm writhed into many uncomfortable positions, nothing louder than a few groans from buried horrors. He was insensate to Gil's palm cupping his shaggy chin.

Thoroughly awakened, Gil flew through his morning routine of brushing his teeth and showering. He also didn’t take as much care with trimming his beard, doing the bare minimum of shaving unwanted growth and patting on lotion. He was rinsing the hair in his sink when he heard oldies music through his bathroom door. He squared his shoulders and stepped through the door, knowing Jackie wasn’t dancing and sizzling up chorizo on the other side.

Gil half expected to find the contents of his fridge all over the floor with Malcolm hunched over like a caveman. Gil was also plagued by a worrying vision of Malcolm pulling away tabs on canned foods and spooning beans into his mouth straight from the can. 

A song by Johnny Nash played while Malcolm, hair knotted in a bun, balanced like a flamingo on his area rug.

“Peace begins with me,” Malcolm said, forcing breaths through his abdomen. Sunshine was nestled in his man bun. “Namaste, Officer Arroyo.”

“Don’t do that. I’m Gil.” He opened the freezer and pulled out bagels to thaw inside the microwave. “Eat quickly while I warm up the car. I want your butt in the barber’s chair. We go now, you won’t have an audience.”

Gil pointed to an appliance. “You know your way around one of these, Bright?”

“I know what a toaster is,” Malcolm said reproachfully.

“Heat and eat. Meet me in five. I’m parked right outside and I’ll be standing where you can see me. Make sure to lock up and don’t leave the cream cheese out when you go,” Gil instructed.

Malcolm obediently approached Gil and the car; his sneakers looked extra grimy on a fresh layer of snow. While Gil didn’t begrudge him the loan of a spare coat, Malcolm managed to pick a medium brown rawhide jacket stored in hiding on the far left of his closet. Jackie hadn’t liked Gil wearing it because of its smell.

“I can pick another jacket,” Malcolm said, noting the expression frozen on Gil’s face.

“It suits you. I never wear it anyways,” Gil said generously.

Gil left Bright to the very capable hands of his own barber. He was less irritable once he bought coffee and made a quick call to Salvy.

“Once you get him out of the groomers, he’ll need a suit. A bad suit is better than no suit. Make a good impression on the shrink,” Salvy advised. “Has he had all his shots?”

“For Christ’s sake, Salvy. You make him sound like a stray mutt,” Gil said, but Salvy made a good point. Malcolm hadn’t had a physical check-up in years.

* * *

Gil didn’t see Malcolm when he re-entered the barber shop. Sunshine chirped from the barber’s shoulder, confirming that Malcolm was nearby, if out of sight. The barber was chatting up a clean shaven pretty boy wearing the styling cape and a fresh crew cut.

“We’re wrapping it up, Gil,” said the barber, dusting off the hair with baby powder. After a moment, the barber ripped away the cape which was a surprise to Gil, as the boy wore gray sweats just like Malcolm. He saw the boy, noticed the eyes.

“Bright?” inquired Gil uncertainly. Beyond that, he was tongue tied by the transformation.

Without the damaged ends, Malcolm’s upright hair at the top of his head looked darker which contrasted his fair coloring. Malcolm’s beard had thinned out his face and given the impression of a narrow chin but now a well-proportioned jawline harmoniously met his smooth cheek. His brows seemed fuller without errant straggles of hair constantly pushed behind his ears.

“Hi Gil. What do you think?” asked Malcolm, tilting his head and blinking away. His vulnerable eyes flashed in the light like melting ice as he fidgeted self consciously from Gil's intent look. 

“Lookin’ good, Bright,” Gil said. He cuffed Malcolm’s chin playfully. “Way to knock ‘em out.”

“Thank you, Gil,” Malcolm sighed. He was like one of them doll babies with his long lashes curling into his cheek. He thanked the barber more effusively as Gil handed over well spent dollars.

Gil grabbed the rawhide jacket for Malcolm and helped him into it, brushing off snippets of hair which fell onto the leather collar. His body odor was gone; he smelled like Gil’s shampoo and shaving cream which the barber used. As handsome as Malcolm looked, he hunched in the jacket, radiating discomfort.

“What do you think about your new look?” Gil prodded.

"Not great. It's too much,” Malcolm said. “You can see my neck and my throat; I’m too exposed.”

Malcolm extended his cupped hands. “I’ll also have a harder time keeping Sunshine warm; when it snows again, I would have to leave her at home in a cage. She needs to be with me.”

“It grows back,” Gil assured him. “For the love of God, use shampoo and condition if you’re going to have that much hair. And wash your beard if you’re going to grow one. You’ll almost never talk a girl into going with you if you stink.”

“Girls,” Malcolm repeated, sounding completely out of depth.

Gil guffawed and slung his arm around Malcolm. “C’mon Bright. We need to get you some basic articles of clothing. And get you out of those busted sneakers. You’re changing your undergarments and socks every day and keeping on top of your grooming. Dress like you have some sense.”

The expenses of Malcolm re-entering civilized society stacked up as Gil added a shaving razor and the aftershave to the shopping list. Gil paid a little more for aftershave without alcohol that would burn Malcolm’s skin and turn him off from shaving regularly. Malcolm watched Gil pull cash money from his wallet.

“Gil, you can’t,” Malcolm objected.

"Not everyday your young man comes back from the grave. We lost you once, Bright. You don't think you're worth all the help I can give you? And I do mean all the help."

Gil's teeth flashed in a smirk as Malcolm ducked his head. Affection pooled in Gil's deep brown eyes. Gil indulgently squeezed at the juncture between Malcolm's neck and his shoulder, his thumb running along the edge of Malcolm's ear gone ruddy in the cold.

As though Gil's touch brought life to him, Malcolm straightened up and pulled his shoulders back. "Then I expect top shelf goods. Sucker!"

He ran for the door of the nearest shop with men's suits displayed in the window with a daring expression playing across his bare face.

"Son of a bitch, not the Chinese," Gil muttered. He would need to write a check to pay the difference between his cash wad and a tailor made suit of wool and silk.

Malcolm waved at Gil, changed tact, and jogged toward a thrift shop looking like a maniac with his purchases swinging from his upraised arms. Gil caught up to him, the cold air rattling in his lungs. Gil hooked his fingers down the collar of Bright's jacket and got him by the scruff.

"Not on my watch. Your mother would come after me and my boss if I let you face your father for the first time in years wearing another man's suit," Gil said adamantly. "And you know what? I would accept demerits and disciplinary action."

Inside of a Men's Wearhouse store, Gil called Malcolm's bluff about suckering Gil out of his money. They argued over Malcolm selecting a cheaper synthetic blend between two similar periwinkle suits.

"If you're buying my shoes too, Gil, it makes sense to go with the cheaper suit. It's not worth it when I can shake down my mother later. She loves shopping," Malcolm groaned.

"Your mother is the type to sneeze out a couple grand," Gil conceded. "How about you hold onto the suit you picked while I return the nicer suit to the sales guy?"

Malcolm looked utterly betrayed like a babe out of the woods when Gil came back for him with the receipt for the more expensive suit and the dress shoes. The suit would be altered in time for Malcolm's appointment with the psychiatrist. 

"That's not what I asked for!" Malcolm complained as he stomped to the car.

"Wouldn't you rather be at your best when we bury your son of a bitch father?" Gil pointed out as he shut the trunk on their purchases.

"Gil, I appreciate your help, but don't say that. I can't talk about my family like that in spite of my experiences," Malcolm said with red eyes. "I'll blow the whistle on my father but I won't slander him in court."

Malcolm looked to Gil helplessly. "He was the one who made me."

"You mean he broke you in," Gil said. He rephrased. "Meant to break you before you got the hell out of dodge. It definitely didn't work out for him."

"It wasn't all bad," Malcolm said, shrinking from Gil’s voice. “We loved each other, so much of it was good.”

“I’m not arguing with you. I believe you.” Gil opened the car door for him. "C’mon. You're shaking all over. Let's get you warmed up sweetheart."

Malcolm peered at him from the side, regarding Gil suspiciously as though Gil were making fun of him.

"Relax, I don't mean anything bad by it. You're a good kid with a large heart," Gil rambled. "You're doing fine. I'm in the wrong for speaking meanly about your father. He's still your family, that I understand. I wouldn't spit on him if he asked me for water but I won't add to the bad. How's that?"

"Fine, that's fine," Malcolm croaked. Distress wrinkled his brow as fresh tears thawed the cold tracks he had already cried. Standing in the orange streetlight, he was like a stranded man trapped in an arctic ocean on a black night, too paralyzed by terror to trust his weight on thin ice lest he sink forever.

Gil swore. "We're doing this here, huh?"

Gil put his arms around Malcolm's shoulder and hugged him with a couple solid thumps on his back and a quick smooch on the side of his neck. Gil's gloves smoothed the back of Malcolm's haircut.

Sunshine whistled a sharp note from her hiding spot inside Malcolm's upturned collar.

Malcolm swiftly pulled back, disbelief and confusion twisting his face. Gil raised his hands and backed up a few steps before he clambered behind the steering wheel. He turned up the volume on a nostalgic Motown hit song. Malcolm followed the music.

"Can you go against your father?" Gil asked.

"I have to," Malcolm answered, buckling in. "I thought I was living free for a while but every day I thought about my mother and my sister who don't know about father. I never rested easily because of who I abandoned. I could've called police a second, third time."

"You came back. Your problem is that you lied to yourself the whole time you were running back to this city. Why did you really leave, kid? Why are you here?" Gil questioned.

"I want to be free. I didn't find my freedom on the run. It was exile," Malcolm said. Gil almost forgot to pull forward when the traffic light turned green and made Malcolm look like a depressed alien.

"What are you going to say on the stand?"

"The truth," shuddered Malcolm. Sounding like a dead man walking, he added, "My father and his friend killed at least one girl. He broke the law. That's why he must go to jail."

"Color me impressed. You're pretty with it, kid," Gil said. "I've arrested almost all types of folks you can think of. Good, bad, weak, and strong. Men, women, and trans. All sorts get arrested for what they do, not who they are."

"Criminals get arrested for what they do but their victims. Victims are put on trial for who they are. Their character is called into question more so than the perpetrator." 

Gil squeezed the wheel. "If we can catch your father, get the jump on him. If we hit pay dirt where he miscalculated, our case won't ride solely on your testimony. We need you but the pressure of what's at stake would crush you if you're our only link to Dr. Whitly."

"The less you depend on the crazy person, the better," Malcolm said.

"You've got it backwards. The more you can depend on us, the better. You were alone for so long that I can't hardly believe you're breathing. I wouldn't last without people around me," Gil said, his concern apparent in the lines around his mouth. "Don't run off again when the going gets tough."

Malcolm's lashes fluttered twice and he licked his dry lips, his breathing too shallow and quick. He looked to Gil with almost a hysterical level of fear. Without a sound, his petrified mouth and stricken eyes screamed, 'Save me! Save me or I die.'

Gil spoke again when he parked his car.

"You can depend on me and my team," Gil said. He slid off his glove and tucked one hand beneath Malcolm's bare chin. He might as well have been comforting a stone angel.

"How?" Malcolm demanded, remaining rigid and distant.

"Show a little faith and trust the cops some. Stop thinking you're going to do everything," Gil said. "Lean in, Bright."

Gil expected Malcolm to do the exact opposite of what he was told. He figured that the young man would rebuff his touch and shut every door possible--car door, front door, bedroom door-- within Gil's hearing. Instead, Gil felt Malcolm's hair brushing along his jaw and Malcolm's cheek butting at his shoulder. Malcolm sincerely trusted his weight on Gil. Gil didn't want to let go when Sunshine nipped him and raised hell--breaking skin, breaking the moment.

"Oof! Get stuffed, bird!" Gil yelled, swearing from his stinging knuckle. Malcolm huffed a short laugh, his breath soft on Gil's ear.

Malcolm's smile drew out dimples formerly hidden by scraggly whiskers. His blue eyes revealed gentleness and sweet knowings to a worthy man like Gil. Cold air rushed in when Malcolm tugged the door handle and pushed, reminding Gil to leap into the next moment and secure his precious witness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclaimer: I stopped watching TWD after Season 1. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoyed wild!Malcolm looking like Jesus from TWD lololol. Ahhhh Malcolm's glo up. 
> 
> I took big honkin liberties with how Malcolm survived in the wild but hopefully I get style points. House points?


	5. Breaking Bread

Malcolm waited for Gil to dress and leave for work. He unbuckled his wrist, kicked off the other belt, and neatened up the bed. It was his old habit to clean up after himself to avoid detection while squatting in a stranger's vacation house that he had broken into.

The bathroom was humid from Gil's shower, smelling of vanilla bean and the rosy argan shampoo Gil used.

Malcolm's stubble was itching him. Gazing into his reflection was a trip as he shaved with a brand new razor and patted on the aftershave just like Gil. Using a sharp razor made all the difference. Malcolm usually stole disposable razors which people wouldn't miss.

Today he would be a shut-in guest with a patrol unit checking in on him every hour. 

He looked down at himself, anxious to kill the boner he had since waking up alone in Gil's bed. He had pretended to sleep while Gil padded in wearing a towel around his waist to grab long johns. Malcolm screwed his eyes tightly closed and let the man get decent when he glimpsed Gil's muscular arms and his brown back.

Malcolm took care of himself in the shower, panting in warm air dripping with vanilla and rose. Cold water rinsed down the pipes.

For breakfast, he scrambled eggs and ate them in a tortilla wrap. He also helped himself to tangerines in a bowl when he noticed the imperfections in their peel. He was accustomed to artificial fruit staged for luxury homes.

Gil lived in a small apartment with two bedrooms, one bathroom, and a washer/dryer in his living room. He appeared to be a bachelor but Malcolm spotted wedding photos of Gil and his rouged black bride. Photos in the living room, besides Jesus with his palm raised, included photos of Gil's wife as a teenager in her white ball gown for her glamour shot, Gil and his wife wreathed in flowers on a beach, and packing themselves in shoulder to shoulder with their large families.

Malcolm chose to spend his time reading a murder mystery novel with a talk show on TV. However, despite making it a point not to snoop around Gil's personal space, he had too clear of an idea on what happened with Gil's wife. 

Gil's shirts and pants were thrown over an ironing board in the second bedroom, away from where Malcolm slept. Hot Pockets and Banquet meal trays stacked the freezer. Bags of rice, salsa jars, and canned beans filled one shelf in a lean cabinet. One drawer was crammed to the top with bottles of herbs and spices. A bucket-sized jug of protein powder crowded the dining table papered with invoices. Shrink wrapped holiday catalogs addressed to Jacqlyn Herrera spilled out of a recycle bin.

In short, Gil's clutter stressed him out and Malcolm stuck his nose in every novel he could find, hating himself for the duality of his neurotic compulsions. When he was in the woods, Malcolm ignored the tenets of hygiene beyond cleaning cuts and bug bites, and prepping his meals to go. In cold weather, he greased his hair and skin with cooking oil to protect himself in frost spells. 

However, once he nested inside someone's picturesque cabin, Malcolm showered, shaved, and moisturized. He washed his clothes and changed his articles daily where he lodged. He also did spring cleaning, scrubbing all traces of himself before returning to the mountain.

He wondered if seasonal OCD was a thing and if he should hide it from the psychiatrist who would test him.

After the second book where Malcolm figured out the killer's identity prior to the last chapter, he gave up and bleached the hell out of Gil's bathroom, taking Q-tips to the shower grouting with pink rubber gloves. He scoured the black scum in the toilet bowl and disposed of the steel wool. He laundered his new clothes in Gil's front loading washer, soothed by the splash of foam and the rumbling spin. 

He recalled when he had done his own wash inside the first cabin he broke into. He had overloaded the washer with soap and had himself a bubble party. Looking back on it, Malcolm was lucky that the property owners used hypoallergenic detergent like what his mother preferred. Normal laundry soap gave him hives. Malcolm triumphantly peeled lint from Gil's dryer filter in one solid piece.

Malcolm planked on the floor in despair when he checked the clock and noted the morning hour. If he wasn't already crazy, boredom would have drove him to it. He performed his ritual sun salutations and meditated with his body pretzeled until lunch.

An officer, Marilyn Torres, rang the doorbell and was nice enough to stand with him while he wolfed down his chicken sandwich.

Torres saw his disappointment at her brief company. "Sorry, honey, I have to finish patrolling and there might be a situation later tonight. Detective Arroyo will be back by 7 with dinner. You can give him an earful then."

Malcolm sighed and scraped at the greasy splashboard behind Gil's stove. Then he tackled the tomato sauce stains baked onto the stove. The discolored soapstone kitchen sink likewise required his attention and more bleach.

When Gil arrived with roasted chicken and a few sides, Malcolm fidgeted on the couch.

"What's up, kid?" Gil asked. He made himself coffee to go with dinner which they ate from the low table in front of a TV game show.

"I'm restless, walls closing in. Can I get some air or can I sit on your stoop for a couple hours?" Malcolm asked. He bit his tongue before he went into full out begging. He saw that Gil was exhausted, probably from catching up on his day out of office.

"Poor kid. You do need to be walked, huh?" Gil said. "I'm going to the gym later. You can come with. Run off your energy."

Malcolm could have kissed him. Once the food was no longer heavy in their stomachs, Gil kept his word.

Malcolm climbed the stairmaster while Gil did warm ups. He helped Gil clamp weights to the squat bar while Gil explained his exercise program. Gil even offloaded his weights and spotted for Malcolm.

"Not bad kid. Get your butt lower, your heels can take the weight. You won't fall," Gil advised. Malcolm eyed himself in the mirrors while Gil watched him.

Once Malcolm rose, trembling from the exercise, Gil moved on to leg machines with Malcolm trailing him.

"I'm going to jog. Go run your butt off. You'll sleep well after." Gil was correct.

* * *

He bruised his arm from lunging out of his nightmares. Malcolm woke up stiff all over and wolfed down four eggs for breakfast. Stretches and a hot shower helped with his cramped thighs. He played action movies all day, swaddled like a frowning burrito on the couch.

Officer Marilyn Torres brought him a chicken salad sandwich. She politely refused to take him food shopping to the nearest bodega. 

"You're going to have to make a grocery list for Detective Arroyo if you want bananas," said the officer. "If you're that bored why don't you make food?"

On the search for a recipe guide on the living room bookshelf, Malcolm located a dingy white binder filled with hole punched recipe cards written by hand in different colored gel pens. Many pork and chicken recipes had a cartoon fish drawn in a corner. He picked the meals decorated with the most hearts and smiley doodles and then made his grocery list.

When Gil strode in, he smelled the floor cleaner. Malcolm had lined his stove with foil and was bent over wiping down the inside of his oven. Baking powder and a jug of vinegar sat on the kitchen floor.

Gil rolled his eyes and plunked the cartons of Mediterranean food on the counter top, announcing his arrival.

Malcolm bashed his neck as he wiggled out of the oven. Gil laughed once he saw Malcolm hadn't brained himself. Malcolm squirmed from Gil's hand on his neck.

"I need to make some calls. Can you eat your food in peace til I finish?" Gil asked.

Scowling, Malcolm flapped a lined sheet of paper at him. "I want to buy food after you're done on the phone."

Gil smiled. "You want to go back for arm day tomorrow?"

At Malcolm's perplexed look, Gil clarified: "At the gym. I should've figured you would be a hungry boy."

Gil gave him food money and talked on the phone while Malcolm shopped. He would have gone in with Malcolm if he didn't need to be on this call. The small grocers had one door which Gil never took his eyes off of. He was still on the phone when Malcolm trudged to the car; he popped the trunk for Malcolm.

"Thank you, I owe you big time," Gil said on his call as Malcolm flounced into the passenger seat. Gil snapped his mobile phone on to his belt and turned to Malcolm.

"Tomorrow you're running errands to social security and the DMV. You're a walker. Going round breathing but legally you're dead. A social worker will assist you with filing paperwork and getting you back in living records," Gil explained. "I'm taking you to the station with me and Miss Tally Herrera will meet us there."

Gil looked over Malcolm's itemized receipt. "That's a lot of eggs."

"The egg came first," Malcolm said. "The chicken chickened out."

Gil ruffled Malcolm's hair, chuckling. "They both have their place at the dinner table."

Malcolm shoved most of the groceries into the empty cabinet. He looked over the recipes he picked out for the week and threw some pork, aromatics, and seasoning into a casserole dish as well as putting dried beans and a bay leaf in a bowlful of water. He would roast the pork for next day's dinner. Then he would attempt the trickier recipe for beef stuffed potatoes the night after. He wanted to try something different besides chicken, delicious as it was.

"Don't stay up too late. You're going to be around a lot more people than you're accustomed. _I_ get tired of people and I'm used to the shuffle," Gil said emphatically. His eyes lingered on the gap in the bookshelf where Malcolm pulled out the recipe book. Otherwise, he only said goodnight before getting ready for sleep.

Chains rattled in his ears, disturbing his rest. Malcolm turned in Gil's bed and blinked at the doorway. He could've sworn he'd seen someone.

Stifling a groan, he loosened his bindings and solved another crime novel despite giving its author the benefit of the doubt. Gil knocked on the door frame wearing a tank top. "Couldn't sleep?"

"I dream about it," Malcolm said, gladly tossing the novel when Gil said they would grab coffee and breakfast. Gil buttoned up his pink paisley shirt and pulled on a beige corduroy blazer.

"Maybe don't read murder mysteries before you sleep," suggested Gil.

"The scariest part of the book was its lack of creative sociopathy," Malcolm said perkily before he bundled layers and layers on his lean body.

Pity tugged Gil's heart when he eyed the emaciated dips of Malcolm's upper body. Malcolm's upper arms and lower legs were speckled with insect bites that scarred. Prior to leaving him with Tally Herrera, Gil pushed a breakfast wrap onto Malcolm who shared his fruit parfait with Sunshine.

"Hongry chonky lady love," Malcolm cooed as Sunshine went bobbing for berries.

“The bird is a no go. I love you Pez but are you kidding me,” Tally said to Gil right off the bat. Her nails were short and painted brown as she tucked back her hair. Her dark brown hair was dyed with caramel highlights which she curled into soft warm-toned curls. She was 5’ 6” in flat furry white boots and jeggings. The skin on her neck was of a light beige complexion underneath her face full of bronzer. Highlights glimmered under her thin brows as she rolled her eyes and pouted her frosted gloss lips.

“They don’t let you bring fried wings into state offices, what makes you think they’ll let a live one through? Pez! This not gonna fly after avian bird flu,” Tally reprimanded.

“I can’t leave her,” Malcolm said, looking like he would sprint for the hills again if Gil so much as looked at Sunshine.

“Malcolm, you could leave your pet with a trusted friend. We should be wrapped up in a couple hours depending on the lines, but we need to get moving or the wait will be worse,” Tally suggested gently.

Before Gil opened his mouth, a familiar Lotus Exige 2005 scraped onto the lot, Shakira’s song Hips Don’t Lie pounding bass when JT rolled down his window to wave at Gil. JT whipped off his sunglasses when he spotted a bronze goddess standing with Gil.

“Buenos,” greeted JT after he avoided the icy patches.

“Present for you,” Gil said. “Today you have a different sort of partner.”

“Oh, word?” JT asked, eyeing up Tally.

“Bird is the word,” Gil said. He clapped both JT and Tally’s shoulders before heading into the station.

“What’s your name, mami? You rollin’ with the J man today? I’m JT,” he said smoothly.

“You can call me Thalia,” answered the young woman, all business. “I’m doing Pez a huge favor. Unfortunately, I require your assistance, JT. Please watch this emotional support bird until I’ve done what Pez has asked me to do.”

"Who Pez?" JT wondered.

"Gil. Gil asked me for a favor but this bird needs watching, pretty pretty please," Tally clarified.

“I can watch your bird for you, beautiful. You need me to give you a ride in my whip?” asked JT.

“That’s a two-seater. What about him?” Tally said. Her lips momentarily curved as they assessed one another. JT stroked the hairs on his chin and nodded while she leaned her weight on her back foot, the shape of her hips and bust apparent beneath her long champagne coat.

“Who you saying about, mami?” JT asked.

Malcolm felt alone and overlooked out in the cold.

Tally broke eye contact first, raising one brow, as she gestured to Malcolm. “He's with me.”

Malcolm held out the bird to JT. “Hi JT. Please watch my lady bird.”

“Wait, I know this bird. But I don’t know-- holy guacamole, that you Bright?! You cleaned up!” exclaimed JT in utter surprise. “You look a helluva lot better.”

“Yes, it’s like all my crazy went on the inside,” Malcolm quipped.

“Uh huh, definitely you,” JT said. “Your bird wouldn’t just… crap all over me, would it?”

“If you have a shoebox and you put some paper in it, that’ll keep your area clean,” said Malcolm. “Just don’t--not in a cage, please. She was born free.”

“I got you, Bright.” JT thrust his hand out to shake on a promise. Malcolm held out both hands and clicked at Sunshine who gratefully wiggled onto the heated cushion of JT’s palm.

“If I see you again, I’ll give you a ride, Miss Thalia. Anywhere you wanna go,” JT said, backing up towards the station.

“What, birdman?” Tally said when she caught Malcolm shaking his head.

“Just thinking about the springtime,” Malcolm said, flashing his teeth.

“Me and him? As if,” she scoffed. “Let’s get you back in the system.”

Though Tally was merely an inch shorter, Malcolm endeavored to keep pace with her fearless stride. She noticed his nervous look when they were crowded at a crosswalk. He was looking at a manhole cover branded with N.Y.C. Sewer, shivering in the perpetual shade of the towering buildings, at least three different spoken dialects jangling in his ears. He paled and flinched from the curb’s edge when the car horns started up.

“You’re alright, honey,” Tally said. She crooked her elbow around his arm and rubbed at his rawhide jacket.

They went another couple of blocks before ducking into a Duane Reade store. Malcolm wasn’t adjusting well to the sensory overload. Tally went through self checkout for the purchase of earbuds and a pair of teal sunglasses.

Tally handed him her pink iPod nano and helped him insert the earbuds. “I’m sorry, most songs are in Spanish. But it’ll block out a lot of the noises that are overwhelming you. So glad I charged it.”

“Thanks, Tally,” Malcolm said a little too loudly. Tally lowered the volume for him and made sure the appropriate music album played for him.

The subway ride to Social Security was much easier to tackle once Malcolm wore sunglasses, neither looking left nor right like a horse with blinders. He bobbed his head very cutely. She checked the nano screen and learned that he responded well to Juan Luis. The federal office was packed wall to wall and there was always the sound of coughing. 

When their number was called, Tally dug into her blush pink hobo purse and fished out a large beige envelope which contained a folded birth certificate and a Social Security card still attached to its mailing stub to a Manhattan residence. Malcolm pulled the ear buds when he saw that both copies were legitimate.

“How did you get those?? My family’s retainer has all of our papers,” inquired Malcolm. “Did you talk to my mother to get these?”

“Pez had them. He probably made up an excuse to borrow them,” shrugged Tally. “Trust me, it’s a little white lie that means we skip Vital Records. You don’t have any bills or letters to prove you lived in NY which pretty much damns you to bureaucratic limbo.”

Malcolm signed and initialed forms to update his status as alive and remove his name from the Master Death file. Government staff informed him that the process would take several weeks.

Tally bought them breakfast wraps from a food cart and kept them moving toward the DMV which managed to be bedlam compared to Social Security. Malcolm wore his sunglasses indoors and hovered near the poorly insulated windows to relieve his agitation in a stuffy environment. He ran out as soon as he was issued a temporary non-photo ID.

“If you’re accepted into witness protection before you receive your camera card, Pez would have it forwarded to you and then you can take it to any DMV in NY state. I made sure your camera card would get mailed to his Brooklyn address. Your family’s house must be your physical address on your camera card,” Tally said. At his glazed look, she added, “Where did I lose you, honey?”

“I heard you. Excuse me. It’s a lot for me to take in, besides being here,” Malcolm said, hugging himself and rotating his upper body side to side. “I like Brooklyn more. If we’re done for today, can I get my Sunshine and go back to Gil’s place?”

“Of course, you did well today. It was nice meeting you, Malcolm. I hope things work out for you, for what it’s worth.”

“Thanks, Tally! I would never have been able to deal with people all on my own. I forgot about this city, what it’s like,” said Malcolm appreciatively.

“JT is really a nice person. You should have a pizza with him, would recommend.” Malcolm could vouch for his friend.

“What’s a nice person like him doing driving that douche-mobile?” Tally retorted.

“If you’re thinking about it, you might as well solve that mystery,” Malcolm said, earning himself a light shove. Despite Tally’s hesitation, she and JT conversed for more than ten minutes after they exchanged phone numbers on her Blackberry and his RAZR phone.

Tally gave Malcolm a look before she hugged him and wished him the best.

“I gotta get moving. Couldn’t reach Pez on his cell. You hang out here where Pez can find you,” Tally instructed Malcolm. She smacked the envelope with his papers into the front of his jacket. “Don’t make me look bad, birdman.”

“And you,” Tally said to JT. “Don’t be late, papi.”

Gil walked out of his lieutenant’s office; he was displeased to see Bright and his yellow bird pacing a figure eight between his own desk and JT’s desk where JT ignored Bright and made work calls. Tally forgot to look for him and inform him when Bright was on premises. Though it was late in the afternoon when Jessica Whitly was least likely to part from her children, she could waltz into the precinct and blow his plans.

Malcolm saw Gil’s frown. He returned the envelope with his papers to Gil. “Here. Tally said your stupid phone wasn’t on.”

“It was on silent. Shoot,” Gil said, remembering. He hadn’t wanted distractions while he spoke with Salvy. Though he unearthed the whole license plate number of the ‘96 Buick, he had a few hits to follow up via on-site visits. It would be a cold day out with used car salesmen.

Gil stashed the envelope inside his metal desk drawer and locked it.

“JT, catch,” Gil said.

A pair of brass keys on a ring clinked as JT’s palm closed around them mid-air.

“Naw man. You can’t keep--”

“I owe ya one. Thanks,” Gil said, already on his way out.

“Jesus Cristo,” JT muttered, sucking his teeth. He opened his drawer and grabbed his car keys. “It’s gonna be a drop off, Bright. If you’re hungry, I can do a drive-by. I can’t be late getting out of work tonight.”

“There’s food at the place. Thanks, JT,” Malcolm answered. His eyes twinkled. “I don’t want to mess up your plans after work.”

“You saw me working my moves, did you?” JT asked in the car. “We may be shooting pool tonight but if I can get my balls in the holes, boo yeah. I’m gonna be like mami, I’ll play you for dinner. Whoever loses buys dinner. Of course, I’m going to win but I’ll grab the check when she in the bathroom fixing her make-up, you know how girls do.”

“What if Tally beats you at your own game?” asked Malcolm. He had questions about girls; to him, an unknown tribe.

“That never happens. I never found anyone as fine as Miss Tally who match me,” JT said, tucking in his lips. “Most girls don’t wanna mess up they clothes or break they nails to win.”

“What if she beats you?” Malcolm repeated.

“Then I gotta change my game up if I wanna score,” JT said. “I would pick a pricey fusion place that I’ve always wanted to try. Italian and French food isn’t bad but there’s no spice to it. It’s safe for a first date.”

“Now, if mami got some flavor, I’m not taking her to no Olive Garden. We try something new for both of us. The place I have in mind has the French restaurant look but it’s gonna be more than chicken pasta,” JT said enthusiastically. He was smiling and checking the time on his dash.

“And what happens after that?” asked Malcolm. He was extremely intrigued to see this side of JT and knew he could trust whatever JT told him. One day, he might need to know how people lived and got along with each other.

“Rematch,” said JT, grinning. “A true king defends his title.”

“Then what do you ask for if she beats you again and you don’t win right away?”

“Bright, dude, why you making me think this much? Your questions got me irked. I’m tryna keep it light and fun,” said JT. “If a man gets psyched out like this, he gonna lose a chick. Or worse, chick loses him, ya feel me?”

“Sorry. I’ll shut up,” Malcolm said. JT turned up the reggaeton in his low-slung hot rod. Sunshine hid inside his jacket collar for the duration of the car ride. She wasn’t a fan of the electronic melodies.

“If she beat me again, I’d invite her over for dinner. Clean up. Kick out my roomie or pay him to get lost a few hours,” said JT. “The nicest thing you can do for someone who deserve it is make something for them that come from you. If you like them, you do home food. You share what you like. You make it look nice on your table. Music. Drinks. Candle. If you broke, do a $5 candle. I don’t like the little tin candles cuz you gotta watch ‘em.”

JT looked at him expectantly. “What do you think? Too much??”

“That sounds really good. My father used to do the same for my mother. He said she was really picky,” said Malcolm.

“Oh, shoot, I don’t want her to think I’m trying to get real serious, real fast,” JT said worriedly.

“That’s only if she wins, right?” Malcolm pointed out.

“Right, yeah. If she’s terrible, I ain’t sweatin’ it. I could even help her out if she knockin’ stuff off the pool table. Like excuse me mami, may I? Then I can come up behind her when she say ‘ay, papi’ and I show her how it’s done.” His bounce was back. JT checked the time on his dash again.

“Thanks JT! Have fun?” Malcolm said. He heard the Lotus Exige revving away after he closed Gil’s door and locked up.

Malcolm took the prepped casserole dish out of the fridge and set it on the counter. He cleared out the oven and pre-heated it according to the recipe binder from Gil’s bookshelf. While he waited, Malcolm turned on the radio but every FM music station came in fuzzy and he wasn’t that desperate for AM radio. He moved the portable naxa radio device, but after he accidentally pulled the plug on it searching for that sweet spot, Malcolm returned the naxa to its spot and fiddled with the faded silver buttons. He hit a button that made the display read: Pista 001. Though the song was untitled, he recognized it as a Spanish tune from Tally Herrera’s pink iPod nano. He didn’t know a lick of Spanish, but he liked the energy.

Malcolm danced around the kitchen with Sunshine hopping around the kitchen counter, heating the soaked beans in a pot and then digging around the drawers for another ticking timer. The oven timer was already set for the pork. From trial and error in his burgling days, Malcolm learned that veggies were best for last as they cooled down the quickest. Sunshine huddled into a corner, likely snacking on household pests.

He found the timer and rigged it for one hour simmering the beans. He fussed over the fresh green beans. Cabin owners usually bought frozen vegetable medleys so Malcolm had no idea how tedious sorting a whole bag of fresh green beans were to a novice like himself. His only points of reference were TV chefs who breezed through snapping off the ends and peeling off the unwanted fiber. His fingertips and nails were sore afterwards but he victoriously filled the colander.

When the timer went off for the beans, Malcolm leaned heavily over the recipe cards. Between peeling and cutting and browning the onions and garlic and bell peppers to sauce the beans, Malcolm was sweating a lot for a pot of beans. Feeling in over his head, Malcolm shoved the beans to the back burner while the recipe dealt with the rice. He had to divide the caramelized onions and bell peppers for a second pot where canned pigeon peas and rice would simmer in water, tomato sauce, sazon, and adobo seasoning for 20 minutes on the timer, to be mixed with the beans.

He was so glad that he put down aluminum foil on the stove. Stray rice grains and tomato spills and dustings of sazon made his eye twitch. The smell of the roasted pork brought him back to life. He removed the casserole dish as the recipe directed. He direly wanted a shower, but the green beans needed a brief boiling and a quick garlicky pan stir, and cilantro garnish. When he finished squeezing lime over the green beans, he realized that he used up all the cilantro for the beans and rice.

Looking at Gil’s cluttered table increased his discontentment. He set the oven to low warmth and stowed the pork covered in its dish. The rice and beans would stay warm in its pot with the heated oven. He covered the pan of green beans. A smile crept onto his face as he surveyed a finished dinner. He hadn’t ever been able to cook food from fresh ingredients, limited to canned and boxed non-perishables stocked by rich and white people as emergency food in the event of winter storms.

Now that he thought it over, the food that Gil and his people brought to him were extremely delicious but he had eaten them up too quickly to taste them. He grabbed a small plate for himself and piled on the rice and green beans. The pork would have to wait until Gil arrived. Malcolm saw the lovely toasted color on the pork and didn’t want to spoil that deep brown with a knife until he could slice it like how a TV chef would.

The rice was stupid good. The green beans tasted like they were missing something… the cilantro, Malcolm thought darkly. Appeased with his warm belly, Malcolm hopped into the shower and washed away the onion and garlic. He had time before Gil’s usual hour of arrival. Malcolm danced around to Spanish music in his gray I HEART NY sweater, smelling the rosy shampoo in his hair. He tidied up Gil’s bedroom. Gil had rushed him earlier that morning, so he picked up his clothes and put them into a neat pile to be washed later and he made the bed, slinging his belts over the headboard. He knocked over a box in a closet near the front door when he hung up the leather jacket that Gil let him wear.

The box jingled upon impact. The cardboard was very dented and worn with the tape peeling at the edges. Curious as to the jingling he heard, Malcolm opened it up and found holiday decorations. He unfolded a tablecloth festooned with gingerbread men. The bells he heard were attached to short branches of artificial pine leaves and pine cones, tied up in a red tartan bow. He shook the branches and discovered the hidden bells. Sunshine trilled in response to each jingle.

He would apologize to Gil later for messing with the table. The papers on the dinner table were scooped into one big pile and temporarily stashed on a chair while Malcolm set the table with the festive tablecloth. The pine and bow tie looked nice when he put them squarely in the middle of the table. He discovered twin silver weights that he put on either side of the bow. He put down four golden place mats while Sunshine perched on the silver weights.

Malcolm squinted at the gingerbread men tablecloth until he figured out he needed plates and cutlery and glasses to make the table look less empty. He found the nicest plates which Gil owned hidden on the bottom shelf of his lean cabinet. Malcolm washed them because they were dusty and sticky.

Memories with his family reminded him where the knife, spoon, and fork went. Gil didn’t have linen napkins so he made do with paper towels folded in half. He cried over memories of Christmas dinner with a roasted goose and his parents speaking in low voices over their wine. Him and Ainsley were too excited over Santa to touch their dinners. He pictured Ainsley and his brother Douglas at that same table, innocently unaware of adult matters.

Malcolm pushed the half empty cardboard box into the closet and went to wash his face with cold water.

Gil stiffly lugged himself past his front door. He had mounted a search for the station wagon. His efforts hadn’t given him anything but a headache and possibly a cold. He needed a hot shower if he didn’t want to catch sick. Afterwards, he planned to take himself and Bright out to a low key diner for hot grub.

The warm aroma and a love song from Juan Luis Guerra stopped him in his living room. Jackie’s favorite playlist sounded from the kitchen where she would often spin around with her charred wooden spoon. He sharply felt the chill in his heart with her music in his head and breathing the smell of home.

_Canta corazón_

_[Sing, my heart]_

_Con un ancla imprescindible de ilusión_

_[Anchored with a higher vision]_

_Sueña corazón_

_[Dream, my heart]_

_No te nubles de amargura_

_[Be not clouded by bitterness]_

Gil hurried to the kitchen for an explanation and found Bright with his nose in another murder book, sitting at a table set almost exactly like how Jackie did it for the week of Christmas.

Bright’s eyes briefly flicked up from his book. “Hey Gil. Hope you’re hungry.”

Bright turned a page, his brow furrowing as his attention drifted to hapless characters making a discovery. He was nervous about Gil telling him off for moving the messy papers from the dining table.

“I-- uh, yeah. Lemme jump in the shower real quick,” Gil said, recovering. In his determination to follow leads on the station wagon, he’d forgotten about their grocery trip and that awkward moment when Malcolm had his paws all over Jackie’s cookbook. He assumed Bright would wait on him to help out with trying the recipes.

_Quisiera ser un pez_

_[I would like to be a fish]_

His throat, already sore from the dry winter, tightened into a salty lump as he fled the crooning vocals, tender strings, thumping bongos and the tapping accompaniment of güira. He was a fish barely getting along within the large expanse of his own desolation and torment, with undercurrents of agony. As though the tragedies of Gil’s marriage occurred just yesterday, Gil tore off his clothes with his numb fingers. He cranked up the shower head to max heat, drowning out music from happier times.

He yanked his graying hair from where the strands were stuck down with sweat. His frost nipped fingers were painfully sensitive to the harsh boiling shower water. Gil was in the middle of soaping his hair with the rose shampoo, his arms bent above his head, when he folded. He propped his elbows against the tiles, leaning on a flat surface that wouldn’t break with the weight of everything in his heart. 

Jackie had used rose scented body butter; he used to massage it into her back, knuckling out the tight knots caused by her job. Then she turned around in their bed and her foot would curl on his shoulder as she poked him for more attention.

_Una noche/_ _Para hundirnos hasta el fin_

_[A Night/To sink to the bottom]_

_Cara a cara_ _[_ _Face to Face]_

 _Beso a beso_ _[Kiss to Kiss]_

_Y vivir [And to live]_

_Por siempre [Forever]_

_Mojado en ti [Soaked in you]_

The song in his head ended, the water thinned out to lukewarm drips, and he stood shivering in an oppressive fog. Gil wrapped himself in a towel and reluctantly threw on cotton pajamas. He layered on his zippered hoodie. 

Bright was plating the food when Gil dragged his slippers into the kitchen. Sunshine the bird played under the dripping sink faucet while Bright swayed to Rockin’ Robin by the Jackson Five. He had found another electrical outlet to plug in Jackie’s music player and he played tunes on an oldies station with hardly any static.

Malcolm glanced at Gil’s long face and put the plates onto the table. “I moved your papers to that chair. They look important so I didn’t toss them or anything.”

Gil stared blankly at the sliced pork, green beans, and rice on Jackie’s plates. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll go through them tonight. Most of them can get shredded.”

Gil reflexively put his hands together over the steaming hot food. Words that he had memorized for the Lord’s prayer cycled through his head. Bright sat with his hands mirrored in a prayer position, waiting while Gil wrestled with himself, counted the years that he’d neglected to bless his meals.

Gil gave in and forked down the hot food before he offended the person who made it. He was oddly relieved that the rice was milder than how Jackie liked it. Bright had cooked it correctly and it went down very nicely in its own way with the pork.

Bright was cheerily tucking away the pork. Gil would never say it aloud, but the pork was cooked more closely to his preference. Jackie was paranoid about under cooking the center and overdid it, made it a few degrees tougher. Bright’s meat was of a softer chew. The parts with the crispy rendered fat was something Jackie achieved inconsistently.

“Nice job, Bright,” Gil said. He said nothing further but words were unnecessary as he cleared the plate.

“It’s a really good recipe,” said Malcolm. He perked up when Gil stood up and went to the stove for a second serving.

“The rice and beans recipe was what my mamá gave to my late wife. Jackie was pushy about getting it because I would eat it up every time we visited my family,” Gil said. “Most of the other stuff is what Jackie learned from her parents. They’re Dominican.”

“I should’ve asked you before I grabbed her recipes,” Malcolm said. “I’m sorry, Gil.”

“Do I look mad?” Gil asked. He pointedly stuffed his mouth, and Malcolm’s face dimpled as he smiled.

“That’s good. I want to try her other recipes when the leftovers are gone.” They had servings for six people.

“Go for it. Give me a list of what to buy,” said Gil. “I will gladly sponsor anything else you make.”

“Thank you, Gil. That’s so nice of you to share,” said Malcolm.

“I don’t cook how Jackie used to,” Gil explained. “Don’t think too much of me. I’m getting more out of it than you are.”

“I really like it. Gives me something to do instead of worrying about my family,” admitted Malcolm. “If I didn't know what my father could do to us, I’d want to go see them. I’d want to say a lot of things.”

“Can you,” Malcolm swallowed, “tell me how my mother and Ainsley are doing? What’s Douglas like?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way but your brother’s a pretentious little shit,” said Gil, laughing at the shocked expression on Malcolm’s face. “He’s fucking spoiled, what did you expect? You’d be doing him and the world a favor if you drop kicked him. Doug is in danger of growing up into one of those assholes at Enron who lied and cheated people. Because he thinks no one will touch him.”

"End ron?" Malcolm repeated. Gil explained the crooked business which led to Enron screwing over its stockholders and employees while the nation hemorrhaged from the financial shockwaves of the twin towers falling.

“... oh,” said Malcolm. “Ho boy. I can’t say anything. Not exactly the good son, myself.”

“Which is probably why him and Ainsley are always fighting. Ainsley has her head on straight. She’s too serious for someone her age but you kinda get why,” Gil said. “Do you want to see pictures of her? Your mother sent me a photo of them two at her debutante thing on my phone. Even though I told her that I get extra charges per text message. That woman does not care.”

“I’d love that, thank you,” Malcolm gushed. He pulled up his chair close to Gil’s until his leg pressed into Gil’s pants. Gil put his arm behind the back of Malcolm’s chair.

“Whoa, that’s Ains? She’s so pretty! That’s weird of me to say as her brother but she is!” Malcolm exclaimed. “What did my mother do with her hair? I like it!”

“You’re a good looking bunch,” Gil said. “The sooner you get back to them, the better.”

“I hope so, Gil,” Malcolm uttered, looking scared until Gil cuffed his chin. 

“They want you back,” Gil said firmly.

“When did you and my family get so close?” asked Malcolm. “You know them better than I do.”

“No. No I didn’t. I was suspicious of your father’s involvement in your disappearance but I never profiled him as a killer,” said Gil. “Your mother never forgave him after he lost you. She would’ve kicked him to West side and kept the house if not for baby boy. Douglas. Around the time Jessica visited her OB, my wife and I were baking our own bun in the oven. Jackie went out of her way to look out for your mother. They acted like sisters, hugged around their baby bumps.”

“Then it was our turn for life to go to shit,” Gil said. He rubbed at his cheeks and blinked rapidly as the times caught up to him. “Jackie’s case was pretty damn rare. She didn’t have a huge mass in either sonograms. We didn’t detect it ‘til it cut off blood flow to our baby. The pregnancy hormones may have fed the tumor.”

“Our only other clue was that Jackie used to mention her legs hurting. She was tough, pushed people away with a few exceptions like your mother. Your mother, to this day, bugs me for the hell of it. I’m doing everything I can to pay it back.” Gil brushed the hair on the back of Bright’s head and patted his neck. “I love your family. I love you.”

Malcolm put his arm around Gil’s shoulder and gave a short, but hard squeeze. Then Malcolm busied himself with putting away the leftovers and rinsing out the pots. Though Bright kept his head ducked and face averted, Gil saw the back of his neck glowing red. Bright was adorably shy. Gil couldn’t contain himself. He clapped a hand over his mouth but it was too late.

Bright turned at the sound of Gil’s laughter. Unspoken intensity flashed in his vivid blue eyes and Gil experienced an unnerving sense as though he were X-rayed.

Malcolm asked him, ”Are you coming to bed?”

“No, I’m on the couch,” Gil answered slowly. If he didn't know any better, it sounded like--

“Can you help me with this?” Malcolm requested, indicating the music player. He poked at a few buttons, flustered when audacious guitar and flirty beats breezed through the speakers. “I don’t know how to stop it.”

_Y dime mami, si busca' a un hombre bueno, uno que sea sincero, igual que yo._

_[And tell me, babe, if you're looking for a good man, one that is sincere, just like me.]_

Gil smirked at him and pulled the plug. He snickered when Bright’s pale face blotched, probably overheated from thinking too much.

“Whatever, I’m going to sleep,” Malcolm said.

“Night, Bright!” Gil replied. He couldn’t resist adding, “Sleep tight!”

Malcolm collected Sunshine and shut the door to Gil’s bedroom. Belted down for sleep, Malcolm flung covers over his head to block out the echoes of Gil saying," I love your family. I love you." Gil's laugh stayed in his ears which scalded red in merciless embarrassment. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Homoerotic tension is best cooked at a simmer.
> 
> Lyricstranslate: Mucho gracias DeniseEMitchell for Spanish lyrics to Burbujas de Amor by Juan Luis Guerra and many thanks for the English translation to citruswind.
> 
> Lyricstranslate: Gracias arenaL5 for Spanish lyrics to Dime si te gusto by Aventura and thanks to Rezz for the English translation!!


	6. Fit to be Tied

Gil went through the papers and old mail which Bright had cleared off the table. He dumped most of it into the trash can and fewer papers were left in the chair. The jumbo jug of protein powder, Gil placed atop the fridge.

In the morning, Gil woke up feeling lighter. He fixed his coffee and readied himself for work. Before he left, he put his palm to his bedroom door and listened. He was relieved to hear Sunshine carrying on. Gil heard a loud groan and knocked once before barging in.

Malcolm coughed up a storm and Gil had to help him out of the sleeping belts; he was fatigued all over.

"You must've picked up the flu from being around people," Gil said. He had gel tablets of generic cold medicine. "You got real sick of people that bad, huh, kid?"

Malcolm glared at him, one blue "hairy eyeball" visible to Gil from Malcolm cloaked in the blanket like a goblin. Gil told him to take the orange tablets which were the daytime cold medicine. After Gil departed, Malcolm huddled up on the couch and wouldn't let Sunshine coddle him. Sunshine left little blue prints on the table from sulking in her bowl of berries.

Officer Marilyn Torres handed Malcolm soup and bread while checking in on him; she did not stick around to catch his germs.

While channel surfing on Gil's TV, Malcolm caught the tail end of the adapted movie Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. He had never seen the movies when he lived at home; none had hit theatres until he had gone from home. Malcolm lied down and succumbed to his nostalgia, sleepless but drowsy from the daytime cold medicine. He had read Book 1 and Book 2 prior to his escape into the woods.

No one had copies of Book 3 in any of the vacation homes he had squatted. He had chanced upon a scratched DVD of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban in the sublevel entertainment room of a luxury cabin. Though he adamantly preferred books to film, Malcolm's curiosity got the best of him and the 3rd Movie was like catching up with old friends who had gotten taller over the summer. 

Then he put the Potter series into the back of his head for years until he, as a teenager, found a blue copy of Book 6 which was missing its dust jacket. He read Book 6 with vague recollections of the Azkaban book. When Malcolm read about the Dark Arts in Book 6, he had left the book unfinished and suffered the night terrors as though he were a little boy all over again, by himself in a stranger's den.

As Malcolm watched Harry the boy wizard scrape very badly through a maze of monsters, he blinked and suddenly he was back in the woods. Malcolm walked through the quiet. When he looked down, he wore khaki shorts, knee socks, and a pair of size 4 boys' brown loafers. He came to a clearing that smelled of grass clippings. The trees looked like thickly twisted silver. In the absence of Sunshine, he heard nothing and his heart was dry like a music sheet void of melody or poetry.

Malcolm was not alone. In the clearing was a long, black bag. He went to it, knew that he couldn't turn around. The bag raised up on one end and rattling chains beleaguered Malcolm. He couldn't see the metal links but their weight dug into his wrists and wrenched his joints. 

A white hand dragged down a shrill zipper. The black bag fell away, landing in the wild grass like a beetle on its back. Out stepped a young man with a bristly beard that extended into his black sideburns. He wore black casual clothes; hooded in his dark sweatshirt. His demeanor was pleasant though he pulled in his shoulders, made himself smaller.

"Hey buddy boy," he said, in a joshing kinda way. Malcolm recognized his father's friend.

Malcolm mouthed the man's name. John. He was petrified, like the trees that had no birds. 

"You know you should pay your respects to your own father," John chided.

"No. I won't go," Malcolm refused.

"Not a problem. He's always been with you. He's here now," John assured him. John looked over his shoulder and then turned around. He stood by closely, his back to Malcolm.

Malcolm watched the dark swatches in between the wood, stuck as though vines had grown over his brown loafers. He anticipated his father striding boldly from where Malcolm could see him coming.

John lowered his black hoodie. A proud and dark mane of hair crowned him majestically, lined with silver despite his youth. Then John tugged his hood further down unhurriedly, reverently, revealing fine lines in a large brow endowed with greater organs of intellect. Then followed a pert nose and striking inscrutable eyes which crackled like blue lightning over desecrated grave soil. His father's grin was like a collection of ivory, won from each kill. 

"My boy. I'm already with you."

His father's voice breathed death onto him, into his gaped scream. Malcolm was light headed by the faint almost alcoholic fumes of an unnatural smell. Sweetly dark wine in a damp cloth sanded away his mind in a saccharine burn. 

Malcolm howled in absolute terror and his soul bolted. His arms were pinned behind his back and knees dug into his bent up legs. His cheek and nose squeaked against the floor.

"BRIGHT! BRIGHT! For Christ's sake, wake the hell up!!" Gil shouted.

Malcolm shivered all over as though he were dragged out of a cold pit. Details of his location and whereabouts trickled through the walls of his cracked mind.

Gil pulled him into sitting and yanked the blanket onto the floor to fluff around Bright. "Do you know where you are? Who I am?"

"Brooklyn. I'm in Brooklyn," Malcolm whispered through his sore throat. "And you're a cop."

Gil made a buzzer noise. "Right in one, kid. At least we both know you're not in La La Land."

"I'm not having anymore of your meds," Malcolm said from inside his padded nest. He was shaking under the blanket.

"Damn straight you're not. I wouldn't leave you alone with cough drops. What the hell was that," Gil demanded.

"That was my ruined childhood," answered Malcolm. He put his exhausted face onto his knees.

Gil patted at the topmost lump he figured to be Bright's head beneath the blanket. "My buela would say you have the screaming meanies. That you have them pretty bad."

Gil let him stew in his aching misery, made sure Bright wasn't suffering from fever above 101° F. Bright lived on broth and Tylenol for the muscle aches. They agreed he wouldn't leave the apartment, to speed up his recovery in time for the psych eval. 

Malcolm's temporary camera card came in the mail. He left it in its envelope. With his leather wallet held at Gil's precinct, he had nowhere to keep it. Not having a wallet made him feel totally overwhelmed when Gil brought home the suit purchased for Malcolm's interview with the psychiatrist. The suit was protected in a thick, opaque cover.

Though his nose had stopped running with mucus and his cough subsided, Malcolm refused to test out the alterations in his formal suit.

"Take my clothes out of that black bag, please," Malcolm begged. 

Despite Gil going so far as to trash the black suit cover, Malcolm's nightmares spiked violently. Though Malcolm gagged himself to muffle his own disturbing outcries, Gil lost sleep. He kept hearing Bright's crazed tussle. A couple times, Bright had dragged himself over the edge of Gil's bed, hanging on by twisted leather and sweat dampened sheets. One of Gil's belts peeled from the strain and Gil considered it a matter of time before Bright wrenched his shoulder or permanently disabled himself unconsciously.

Gil knew that anything that happened once Bright entered protective custody was outside the bounds of duty between an investigator and a witness. Nevertheless, he wanted a measure of peace on Bright's safety after seeing how awful Bright's sleep habits were.

When Gil was at work, he opened up an email chain from Dr. Shanice the medical examiner with flash animated seasons's greetings. What caught his eye was the aol email radical_edtanaka. He composed a separate email.

《Edrisa, happy holidays! can i call you for advice》 typed Gil.

Edrisa seemed like the respectable sort of girl who was into kink. Gil didn't work with her often but knew of her enthusiasm for unusual lethal injuries. Within 20 minutes, he received a short reply containing Edrisa's direct dial followed by a string of sparkles stars hearts and smiley font faces.

He called her immediately. With several inches of snow dusting the city, Gil had to slow down his physical search for the station wagon.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?" Edrisa chirped over the phone.

"Hey kid. I think you can help me out with this situation I have," started Gil on his personal phone. He looked around the precinct and withdrew into the copier room, away from the break room which was jumpin' with holiday cakes and snacks. Gil relaxed when he confirmed no eavesdroppers.

"Oh? This is not a work call, is it?" Edrisa said. "Let me close my door."

When she returned, Edrisa encouraged him. "Go on ahead, detective. If my expertise affords you some help, I'm happy to be of service."

He was going to buy her fancy chocolate for Christmas just for that earnest attitude.

"Thanks Edrisa. It goes without saying that this is a personal ask. Can you tell me how you'd safely tie someone to bed? And they're comfortable?"

"Señor," breathed Edrisa rapturously over the line, "I'd be absolutely honored to walk you through the art of bondage and spoiling your love slave."

"It's not a sex type thing," clarified Gil. "I know someone who has, uh, they're called night terrors. I'm worried about 'em when they sleep alone. If there's no one to wake 'em up or help them if they fall outta bed." 

There was a dreadfully long pause where the phone got hot in Gil's clammy palm.

"My misunderstanding," said Edrisa. "I was going to suggest a little field trip to one of my favorite boutiques for... hobbying."

Edrisa cleared her throat and recovered her peppy spirit. "However, if your objective is medically safe restraints for family or a close friend, I can email you a list of stores to call up."

Before Gil could give thanks, Edrisa got in another breath. "Actually, no, what are the dimensions of the bed in question? I can make some calls and point you to the best retailer."

"Um, well, they're staying with me and sleeping on my queen size but it's not a permanent situation. Their next digs could be a twin or a pull out cot. It's iffy on a budget," answered Gil.

"As long as there's a mattress, I can help. It's trickier, requires an extra set of hands and experience with silk ties, if we can't anchor the restraints…" Edrisa trailed off thoughtfully. "You know what Gil? Let me know when you're free for a visit from me. I can set you up and demonstrate safe practice. I have something that your person can use. I'll leave right after you have what you need."

"Not a good idea," said Gil. "It's like the plague times right now. You'll get sick if you're there."

"Ooohhh Bubonic. Alright, then you come to my place. Strictly business. I'll show you what you need to know and you can ask me anything afterwards," offered Edrisa.

Gil bought a nice candy box from a sweets shop that caught his eye. Bright was at home, cooking from Jackie's recipe book. Gil would be working for Christmas so he cut out earlier on the day that Edrisa agreed to have Gil visit.

Edrisa's apartment was one unit inside of a duplex. She enjoyed a living space partitioned into actual rooms. The place was very quiet, well insulated from outside disturbances.

"At first I hated the wall to wall carpeting," Edrisa chattered as she walked him to her bedroom. "But then the sounds don't reverberate as you'd experience with hardwood. I pay a guy to shampoo the whole place twice a year and run my air filter because I'm sensitive to allergens."

"Thanks for having me over," said Gil. He gave her the candy.

"Sweet deals! Thank you for giving me your sugar, candyman," Edrisa said playfully in a flirty lilt.

They walked by pegboards mounted in the hallway heavy with leather whips, straight, beaded, or braided, clappers, and medium weight equipment one would expect on a cattle farm not in a quiet apartment. A pair of canes and one sword fashioned from bamboo rounded out Edrisa's hobby collection. A meat tenderizer gleamed conspicuously near the various colored ropes which alternated between coarse and very glossy texture.

Edrisa's bedroom was tidy and normal but for one thing.

"Is that a crash dummy in a folding chair?" asked Gil. He'd been prepared for… well, no, no he was not prepared for how kids played nowadays.

"Ballistics dummy weighted to my specifications. He's Buster the III," Edrisa said in introduction. "When I'm not in any... arrangement, he helps me keep my dom hand practiced."

"Nice heels," said Gil to Buster the III.

Edrisa rolled up her coverlet and draped it over Buster the III. Then she hopped onto her bed in her striped long sleeve and yoga leggings. Gil kept his gaze on her headboard as Edrisa crawled around her mattress and pulled out black cuffs from the corners.

"Observe what I can do all by myself," purred Edrisa. 

"That's not leather," Gil pointed out.

"It's not always rawhide and brass," Edrisa said, smiling. She secured first her ankles and then placed her left hand into the restraint. "Nylon and plastic gets the job done."

Edrisa pulled at the tethers and showed Gil how limited her mobility was. "Going by what we discussed, makeshift restraints aren't sufficient. I recommend both feet and one arm, make sure you can stick a couple fingers between cuff and limbs. Each night, your person can switch. Heh. Meaning alternate which arm gets bonded."

Edrisa showed him how quickly and easily she did the cuffs. Gil saw she had picked a well designed product that would fit most beds.

"And if your person damages the buckles, a quick trip to Home Depot or a sporting goods store for carabiners would do in a pinch, just to hold them down while you're buying a replacement. Cuz shipping, y'know?"

"Not at all," said Gil. He lifted the mattress and noted how Edrisa had clipped together the lengths of nylon. "Do you mind if I practice setting it up?"

"Not at all!" Edrisa answered. "I'll supervise."

Edrisa came in with a glass of red and nibbled at her bon bons, shamelessly eyeing up Gil as he shifted into various crouches and bent positions. Satisfied with his handle on assembling the nylon restraints, Gil cuffed himself to Edrisa's bed, arching and flexing. He was a bit sweaty but confident that the simple bonds would hold Bright securely.

"How do I look, Edrisa?" asked Gil, feeling silly.

"You're more lively than what I usually work with," answered Edrisa. She licked confectioner's sugar from her cupid's bow.

"Tonight's all business. But I have to say, Detective. If you're ever down to go underground, please call me," said Edrisa, her pitch dropping like three octaves.

"Edrisa, I'm closer to fifty than not," Gil answered, flustered.

Edrisa's lip scrunched up and she raised her brow. Each step she took towards him jacked up Gil's heart rate.

"May I?" Edrisa asked. She had ditched drink and sweets in favor of dangling the fourth cuff.

"I'll think about it," Gil said. "I have a lot on my mind. I just can't right now."

"Relax, detective. I said we're doing business. We won't go any further than this but do indulge my girlish whims," Edrisa said. She swung the cuff on its long tether.

"Alright," Gil agreed. He felt the weight of her clever hand resting on his forearm.

"Thank you much," Edrisa said warmly. She patted his hair, in particular the section that curled into his forehead

"Hey! Hey! Watch the do," Gil protested.

"Or else what, Uncle Jesse? See if you can break free." Edrisa licked her lips and reached for her empty glass. "I'll be back."

"Edrisa! Edrisa!" Gil called while she slinked away for more wine.

She released him upon her return.

"You can have this. I never had a chance to use it. Someone should be happy with it, don't you think?" Edrisa teased, covering up a fleeting expression of self-pity.

"Thanks Edrisa," Gil said, a free man. He gave her a light hug. "Happy holidays."

"You want a gift bag for that? If you're planning on fun, I recommend wrapping it tight. Because I also have gift wrap," Edrisa added. She didn't wait for his answer.

Gil returned to his living abode with Bright's gift in hand.

"Must be real cold out there. Your whole face is red," Bright commented.

Gil shoved the gift bag into Bright's gray I Heart NY sweatshirt. "Merry Christmas. I'm taking a shower."

When he joined Bright at the dining room table, Gil was delighted to see the beef stuffed fried potato balls with a little tub of gravy sauce, as well as a dish of rice and pigeon peas. Sunshine was pecking away at a tomato slice.

"I wanted to make this before I left," Malcolm said. "The recipe card for this was the grossest most messed up card in the bunch so clearly it's a favorite."

They each had two apiece with music from that oldies station. There were more in a foil tray, to be killed the next day when all the businesses closed for the holiday.

"It's not a Christmas goose but I have no regrets," said Malcolm. "Sorry about just tossing a salad together. I didn't know what veggies were good cooked with the potato beefy balls."

"Jackie never made vegetables with this," said Gil. "The salad kind of works."

"Hmmm, is the gravy supposed to be thin? It tastes good but I haven't eaten it before," Malcolm ranted.

"You're practically drinking the stuff," Gil pointed out in good humor. "And yes, what you did is fine. You followed the directions, you're good, Bright. This is fantastic. I hate making it cuz you have to starch your hands. Crap gets on my face, uh uh."

"I can't imagine why," Malcolm said as he watched Gil fix his hair at the table. Malcolm's dimples came out as Gil dumped gravy all over his potatoes and ate it up.

"What did you give me earlier?" asked Malcolm.

"Didn't you open it and look?" Gil answered rhetorically.

"Yes, obviously, but I'm not sure if I understand," Malcolm replied.

"It goes around your mattress, wherever you put your head down. Then you strap yourself in and it'll keep you safe when you have the screaming meanies," said Gil, referring to the nightmares.

"Oh my God, thanks Gil. I didn't know you could buy bed straps like that. How did you…?"

Gil cut him off. "Believe me, I earned them, Bright. Don't ask so many questions. When the food's settled, I'll help you install it."

"I don't have anything for you," said Malcolm. 

Gil took in the decorated table, felt the coziness of a good meal, and the warmth blanketing them. He was undeniably fond of Bright's company.

"What do rich folks do for Christmas besides rip people off? There's really a goose?" Gil prodded teasingly.

"Roasted goose. Never boiled unless you've pissed off your house staff. We put away the caviar and bring out the foie gras. The fine china and silver spoons stay. Formal dress code because we aren't animals," answered Malcolm, ticking off the established rituals on his fingers. He sounded exactly like his mother Jessica.

He shook his hair out of his eyes and leaned towards Gil. "How about your family? I'm surprised you haven't mentioned going to see them."

"Oh, they're all over. Florida. Jersey. I'm stuck with work at Christmas because more people than you'd expect finally snap on the holidays. I'm in Jersey for New Years Eve. Depending on how 2007 works out, maybe I'll do Florida when the ball drops."

Gil leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his stomach. "Christmas was more about being home for me and Jackie. When her parents were around, we'd visit and Jackie would be sort of kidnapped by her whole block. Parents go. People move. Jackie would spruce up the apartment for me when I finally came home from a late job on Christmas Eve. I'd be starving because shops closed early. Sometimes my partner Salvy would come with and grovel for a hot plate, too."

Gil's lips twitched as he stroked his beard, eyes looking sly. "Jackie would fix him a bowl and then I'd hustle him out. Christmas Day I'd work while Jackie slept in from staying up to get in time with me. She'd have our table like this. Almost."

Gil opened a kitchen drawer and pulled out a pair of red tapered candles. He lit them using the stove burner and put them on the silvery candle holders.

"It's beautiful," murmured Bright.

"She did it beautiful," Gil said, his palms flat on the table, fingers splayed. Joy flickered in his face and a golden glow illuminated every depression and long line that grievous loss imparted. Gil looked as a man taken apart by sorrow and repurposed with humility, vigilance, and kinder deeds. Malcolm couldn't look away. Seeing Gil like this made him want.

Gil spoke before Malcolm figured out the mysterious impulses which made his thoughts race.

"Y'know, I figured you'd talk to me about the presents. And don't tell me you didn't have bows and boxes up to your neck," Gil teased.

Malcolm tapped his two index fingers together, his face embarrassed. "I remember rolling around in paper and making myself into a Christmas mummy and jumping into huge cardboard piles. But I couldn't tell you what the brand name toys were despite the fact that I would have _died_ had I not gotten them."

Malcolm smacked the table and practically skipped towards Jackie's music player. He cranked up the music and twirled to Bill Haley. His teeth flashed as the rest of him blurred into motion. "My father played old peoples' songs and made my mother dance with him. Ainsley would grab my shirt and make us go round and round til one or both of us got sick or fell down. So you can imagine us in ballgowns and blazer jackets."

Then Malcolm remembered his current circumstances and he froze, horrified. He suddenly jabbed maniacally at the electronic buttons. "I mean, no, don't imagine my father. Oh God."

He understood where Bright was coming from but Gil couldn't stop himself laughing at Bright's frantic panic as he pulled back from an unexpectedly good childhood memory. Bright managed to hit on Jackie's dance playlist.

Gil grabbed at Bright's wrist and put a firm hand to his shoulder. "Bright. Bright. It's salsa music. You're OK."

He pushed onto Bright. "Take a step back. Other foot, I'm leading. Now forward."

Bright cooperated though he was perplexed. "Why am I doing this?"

"I figured this would be more fun for both of us versus you flipping out screaming and running away," Gil said. He squeezed Bright's fingers and raised his arm. Bright instinctively spun around.

"Hammer lock!" Gil declared. He immensely got a kick out of Bright flailing his arms confusedly before they figured out how to link their hands and sync up their steps.

"I like the energy, Bright," Gil said, encouraging. "Take some lessons and some Spanish birds would love you."

"Birds?" repeated Malcolm. "Why Spanish birds? We're in NY."

"Ladies," Gil clarified. "Girls."

"Girls," Malcolm repeated, sinking ever deeper into overwhelming depths.

"Girls like dance. You should pick it up. Now move your hips, you're not a plank," Gil said. He briefly put his hands on Bright's waist, nudging and directing. "Move it!"

"I'm kind of a lost cause," Bright said helplessly, but his eyes sparked and he picked up his feet, bent his knees, and counted the rhythm. He seemed to enjoy not thinking about his wretched past in the time it took for Gil to tap out.

"Alright, I'm out. Done. I mean it. Do I need to tie you to the bed," Gil said when Bright continued dancing the salsa in place.

"Well, yes," Bright answered, dropping his hands and stilling himself.

Gil pulled the plug on the music player. "Hit the showers, kid. I'll get you in my bed after I clear out the kitchen."

"Thanks Gil," Bright said, fidgeting. 

“Are you crazy?” Gil said when he caught Bright getting ready for sleep with his hair wet. Gil crossed his arms disapprovingly as he leaned against the doorframe to his bedroom. “You know what, don’t answer that.”

Gil grabbed the hair dryer from the cabinet under the bathroom sink and called out for Bright to come to the bathroom. He waved the hair dryer at the toilet, lid down. “Sit. Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to sleep on wet hair?”

“I usually don’t sleep,” Bright answered as a reminder. 

“Yeah, yeah. Sit,” Gil said, deadpan. 

Despite Bright’s smart comments, he slouched contentedly as warm air tousled his heavy, dark locks. Gil took to ruffling Bright’s hair more than strictly necessary to get at the roots. The young man had more hair than sense. Gil cuffed his chin lightly, made Bright crack a smile.

Bright had thrown the bondage restraints across the bed. Gil lifted the top mattress and instructed him on how to secure the nylon underneath. Within minutes, two cuffs protruded from each end of the bed.

Malcolm tightened the soft shackles around his ankles. “These are so comfortable, I can barely feel them.”

“Wait a minute. That looks too tight,” commented Gil. “I’m going to fix them, if that’s okay with you.”

“Go ahead, I need you to show me how,” consented Malcolm.

His toes twitched when Gil held his lower calf, Gil's fingers cupping his heel, thumb brushing his instep. Gil undid the velcro on Malcolm’s shackles and demonstrated how he could fit two fingers between the nylon and the bone on Malcolm’s ankle.

“That feels like it’s too loose. I might break free,” said Malcolm worriedly.

“Let’s put these to the test, then. I’ll get both your arms and you show me if you can break free,” challenged Gil.

Malcolm kicked his ankles and flailed his arms but he wasn’t able to completely shake off the nylon restraints. The cuffs on his wrists had loosened but he would not have broken free if he were sleepwalking. 

“See? What’d I tell you?” Gil said, all confidence. He ruffled Bright’s hair, grinning broadly the more displeased Bright appeared.

“How’s the mouth guard working out for you?” asked Gil. He had bought one for Bright on his last snack run to a pharmacy.

“I already chewed through them,” said Bright. He nodded his head at the plate on Gil’s dresser where he stored the mouth guard. “My back teeth grind pretty hard. There’s already little holes. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You need the heavy duty chompers like what boxers use,” Gil said. “Makes perfect sense. That doesn’t make you crazy.”

“As opposed to everything else about me,” Bright retorted. He jimmied his wrist through the loosened nylon restraint. 

Gil reached out without thinking, patting Bright’s cheek. “Hey, no matter what the shrink says when they evaluate you, you’re one of the good ones, Bright. If witness protection won’t come through, I’m not tossing you to the streets.”

“Where would Sunshine and I go? I can’t be with my family. Not in that house!” Bright said defiantly.

“Your bird can go up a tree,” Gil answered. “Cool it, Bright. Settle down. Both of you are welcome here. Until the Surgeon’s behind bars.”

“Gil,” Malcolm began. He paused, at a loss for words.

“I believe you. Between you and me, who’s worse off? The guy who says some off-the-wall things or the guy who believes?” said Gil, making light of future problems.

“The guy without a singing bird, definitely,” said Bright.

Gil laughed and messed up Bright’s hair one more time for good measure before saying goodnight.

Malcolm didn’t sleep a wink the night before his appointment with the psychiatrist. He was up before Gil. Gil woke up to the noises of Bright splashing his face with ice cold water. Bright came out of the bathroom in his fitted suit, his top buttons undone and his electric blue tie hanging loose around his collar.

“Bright,” Gil said slowly. “Do you know. What time it is.”

“I dreamed that my dad opened the rear door of a burning station wagon and chains came out to get me. Then the station wagon pulled forward and dragged me with it,” Bright confided. His hands trembled too much to properly knot his tie.

“Gil, I- I think the vehicle you’re looking for has metal loops in the back area. Like what you could use to tie someone down. As awful as it sounds, that felt like a real memory that I had.” Bright gave up on the tie and eased himself onto the edge of the couch, careful not to ruin his suit.

“Christ. I’ll keep my eyes peeled.” Gil squeezed Bright's shoulder and briefly smoothed down the hair on Bright’s nape. Shaved, combed, and suited up, Bright was disarmingly easy to sympathize over. He smelled good, too, probably from the aftershave.

“Where’s Tweety bird?” Gil asked, though he could probably guess.

“She’s still sleeping. It’s too early even for her,” Bright answered, embarrassed.

“Does she have bird feed for today? I don’t know if JT would be around to watch her, on the off chance that he’s not on vacation,” Gil said.

“She’ll be okay here, just for today. I know I can’t have her with me. It’s a test that I can’t fail,” said Bright resignedly.

“It’s not that kind of test, Bright. Answer the questions honestly. Breathe. The psychiatrist is helping you as much as they can.”

“Thanks Gil,” said Bright.

“FYI, I’ve needed therapy. It’s not something you knock out in a couple sessions,” said Gil. “Gimme ten minutes. I know a place that’s got good crumble.”

“Crumble?” Bright repeated.

“You’re missing out. Ten minutes,” Gil said.

Gil treated Bright to breakfast at a diner. Bright ate up the crumble with hot tea to settle his nerves while Gil had a breakfast sandwich with coffee. Once he relaxed, Bright knotted his tie right at the counter without using a mirror.

"How do you know how to do up your tie when you've been roughing it for several years?" Gil asked.

"Trinity Prep school days. Past a certain age, clip-on ties didn't cut it. Anyone who came from a good family learned it from their parents," answered Bright. 

"Whoa, just how much of a snob were you?" quipped Gil.

"I never hazed the newbies but I was as bad as the top of my class," confessed Malcolm.

"Loosen up, Bright. I'm just messing with you because I forget you were a rich kid despite seeing the McMansion where you grew up. We all have moments where we wish we handled our issues differently," assured Gil.

"All the same, I wish I hadn't acted like a Pureblood. The only person who missed me was my own mother, who I'm sure was perfectly lovely to NYPD," said Malcolm, quirking his brow.

Gil raised his hands up. "Check, please."

Then they were on their way to a private practice in the Village.

“In your case, I made sure testing wouldn’t be done at the Precinct. Too many things going on and the only rooms available are designed to make a suspect uncomfortable,” said Gil. “Luckily the psychiatrist offered to host. I’ll be here. If you don’t see me, stay in the waiting area. The doc’s got a bathroom. Do not leave without me. Wait for Gil.”

“Okay, Gil.”

“No no, repeat after me. Wait. For. Gil.”

“Wait for Gil,” Bright said flatly.

Gil escorted Bright into a bright red six-story building in West Village with large and dark windows. They entered a spacious welcome lobby with modern furnishings and a small business office sectioned off by glass. Gil found the elevator and steered Bright to the floor where the psychiatrist saw patients. Bright skimmed his hand along the exposed brick wall and craned his neck a few times to check out the neighborhood from the top floor.

“Focus, Bright. I’ll walk you down Bleecker and you can see Washington Square and maybe Mac Dougal before I report in at work. We need you to focus.”

“Sorry Gil.” Bright perked up from the promise of a field trip.

The psychological evaluation went on for about three hours which didn’t surprise Gil. He brought his work files with him, squinting through archived classified ads, particularly the section for used cars. Gil had already eliminated listings from ‘96 through ‘97. He wrote down phone numbers from a few private sellers in his planner and highlighted the corresponding tiny printed squares.

Gil made his cold calls, leaving voicemail messages which he expected because most people worked first shift. He received a call back from an elderly man who had since retired to Florida.

Bright came out first, unaccompanied.

Gil made some agreeable noises and wrapped up the phone call as politely as he could; retired folks were forthcoming, helpful, and very very chatty. “I have an appointment, Mr. Lychalk. I really appreciate your time. I’ll call you to confirm what you’ve told me. Uh huh. That’s A-R-R-O-Y-O. Puerto Rican. No, I haven’t been to El Yunque.”

The man was still saying goodbye when Gil quietly slung his hand on the scruff of Bright’s collar, thumbing the young man’s neck until his shoulders weren’t hunched. Bright looked like he’d forgotten fun. His chin was tucked close to his neck and his blue eyes peeked at Gil from underneath his scrunched eyebrows. Brown strands fell over his right eye and rested on his nose which looked a little too red in a heated office. Gil scanned Bright’s face with concern.

When the psychiatrist went to the waiting area, Gil stood up and made sure that he and the psychiatrist weren’t within earshot.

“What happened in there? Kid looks like he ate a bowl of Depressi-O’s. No offense doc,” said Gil.

“None taken. I cannot discuss my findings with you, Detective Arroyo. Malcolm conducted himself very courteously but… “ The psychiatrist drifted off. “If you’re in a position to do so, put pressure on his family to pay for one-on-one counseling and get them involved in private family sessions. The Whitly’s can come here or go elsewhere. This is not me drumming up business. The sooner this young man receives intervention, the better.”

“Thanks, Doc. Appreciate your professionalism,” said Gil. They shook hands.

Gil kept his word and strolled patiently with Bright on their walk to Washington Square.

“How do you feel about coming back, kid?”

“I’m where I need to be,” Bright answered bravely.

“You seem like you’re more than a little spooked. Are you having flashbacks or anything like that?” prodded Gil.

“I mentioned my bad dreams to the doctor,” Bright admitted. His right hand was on his upper left sleeve, fingers stroking the leather jacket as he self-soothed. “But I realized today from the doctor’s questions that I’m always afraid. I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt safe anywhere. I’m trying not to think about it because I’ll throw up.”

“Oh sweetheart.” Gil put his arm around Bright, covered Bright’s white knuckled hand with his glove. “I’m amazed you lasted this long by yourself. No one is expecting you to be a macho man, to save the day, or be a caped hero. Vigilantes are a danger to themselves and law enforcement. I wouldn't want you to go after your father or his accomplice."

"Can you take me to Sunshine? Please? I have a lot to think about."

"Sure thing. Mi casa, su casa." Gil realized that he preferred Bright at home while he investigated monstrous and inhumane crimes.

Three business days later, Salvy called Gil into his office. He had a picture of yellow warblers on his computer monitor.

"I don't care how you do it. Get rid of Tweety bird. Looney Toons has been illegally holding a native species in captivity. Tweety bird needs to be rehabbed," Salvy commanded.

"Can't we say it's a parakeet? He's very attached," Gil suggested.

"Get rid of it. Looney Toons can take up bird watching for where he's going," Salvy said.

"Wait, Salvy. Is he in?" asked Gil.

Salvy tossed a folder at Gil. Inside was a copy of Malcolm Whitly's non driver's state photo ID from when Gil had taken Bright to the DMV. Gil flipped past miscellany and then he paged through the results of Bright's evaluation. The psychiatrist diagnosed Bright with generalized anxiety, PTSD, and severe insomnia.

"He's not too crazy to give credible testimony," Salvy confirmed. "Pick up van will come to you. Humans only need apply. No feathers."

"That's quick," said Gil.

"High profile cases get more attention. I've got surveillance on Dr. Whitly anytime he's not scheduled for surgery. Mrs. Whitly remains a nuisance but if Dr. Whitly lodges a complaint, we can say it's a response to her increased visits. He'll see it as petty. You have been documenting her visits, hopefully."

"She's due for another unannounced visit when the kids aren't on their winter break," answered Gil. He was relieved that he hadn't needed to lie to her face. "Her birthday is in January if we don't hear from her. You were invited as well."

"I'm aware. Would love to give that woman what she wants for her birthday and be done with that whole family. Holiday miracle," said Salvy before dismissing Gil.

Gil broke the news to Bright in person. Bright didn't flinch at the prospect of packing up for orientation and placement in a new city. But when Gil told him that Sunshine would be relocated, Bright went into the bedroom and shut the door. He could hear Bright bawling his eyes out. Then Gil only heard Sunshine's twittering.

When it got too quiet, Gil knocked.

Bright was lying in bed with Sunshine perched on his hand. His eyes were closed. Gil sat on the bed. Bright put Sunshine to his lips and he opened his bloodshot eyes.

"I'm sorry, kid. I-- I made some wise cracks about your bird but I never wanted you separated."

"It's selfish of me to keep her. I should have released her when it was time for her to migrate. I was planning to let her go in the spring so she could start her own family," Bright said. "But how is she going to find a mate when she's been away from her own kind? How can she relate to others after going away for a long time? I didn't do her any favors. And now she's going to face the winter by herself."

"Geez, Bright. She's going to a wildlife expert. They'll probably watch her until she has a reasonable chance at survival. She's not going it alone. Neither are you."

Bright sat up, cupping Sunshine in his palms. He slumped dejectedly into Gil's shoulder. Gil leaned his cheek to the top of Bright's messy hair.

"I'm going to miss having company," said Gil.

"You could invite people over for dinner. Isn't that what grown ups do?" Bright pointed out.

"I dunno, Bright. A lot of them knew Jackie. It's a lot to ask someone." 

"Gil, are you hiding from people, too?"

"... way to call me out. I suppose I am," Gil said.

They both watched Sunshine hop around in Malcolm's palm and hang off his sleeve.

"Can you let me know when they come and get her? I have to know what happened to her," Bright requested.

"You would have to call me from wherever they place you. Do you want my cell number?" 

"Yes. I have to hear from you," said Bright.

Bright looked almost cheerful when Sunshine fluttered onto Gil's knee and dug in her talons through his pants, causing an irritating sting.

"Awww, Sunshine loves you," Bright cooed. His eyes sparkled as he looked from Sunshine to Gil. "That's how I know you're good. Animals can sense it."

Gil shook his leg to dislodge the bird, unsurprised to see droppings on his pants.

He changed clothes and helped Bright gather his few possessions in a carry-on duffle that Gil hadn't used for years. Toiletries, clothes, belts, and the bondage restraints barely filled the duffle.

The next morning, Bright was escorted to a pick-up van. Gil checked for ID. As Bright slung his duffle over his leather jacket, Gil was plagued by the persistent wish that he could do more for Bright. With Bright secured in protective custody, Gil kicked Sunshine to the Precinct in a cage he had snapped up in a flea market.

"Isn't that Bright's bird?" JT noticed.

"Not anymore. Bright's out of town. Birdie's going back to the state," Gil responded. "You need something to do?"

"I'm supposed to give you this. It's from Darius," JT said, offering up typed names in a spreadsheet. 

Gil immediately called Darius. "Hey, sounds like you had a good vacation. What did you give JT?"

"How are we doing on the station wagon?" Darius asked.

"It's been junked. I meant to check it out but I got pre-occupied," said Gil.

"Houseguests are tough. I can't believe you got the kid to stick around. A runner if I ever saw one."

"So what am I looking at, partner?" Gil asked.

"I subpoenaed the HR department of every hospital that Dr. Whitly worked for. Employee names narrowed down by years Dr. Whitly worked. Came up with a few dozen men whose first or middle names are John. Think you can check which one owned a station wagon?"

Between following a few dozen names or one station wagon, Gil weighed his choices. Fifty phone calls or one site visit. "I'll start with the car. Where are you now? Can you meet me in the Bronx and keep an eye out while I poke around?"

"I'm at the medical examiner's. I'll get there before you do," said Darius.

"Poking around?" asked Gil. "Tell Foxy Brown I'm wishing her a happy new year."

"Shanice say she hope your year goes swimmingly," Darius replied promptly, confirming Gil's theory on his partner's personal life.

Gil told Darius the address for the junkyard. Inwardly he was groaning because they were more likely than not going to turn up cold scraps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Edrisa. Unless this show confirms her backstory, I choose to believe that Edrisa's eccentricity came from growing up in relative leisure with family trips to Rome. *activates crazy rich asians card!*
> 
> I liked the idea of Gil pulling Bright in for a dance, like how Malcolm danced up on Dani. :( Dani was too young to be included in this AU. Dani fresh off her quinceañera, she would destroy Malcolm LOL.


	7. The Little Guy

Gil brought the picture of the station wagon for work motivation on a frigid winter afternoon. He and Darius were racing the sun to physically search the premises of endless piles of compacted vehicles and the husks of heavy machinery in a junkyard.

If he had been alone, Gil would've quit and hiked back to his car. In his 40s, he was more susceptible to the cold. It was a matter of time before he wore turtlenecks under blazers for field work.

With Darius close by, a younger partner who had more restless energy to burn, Gil didn't want to come off as a quitter. He agreed to keep going.

The sun went down and Darius used the flashlight on his cell phone to aid Gil's search.

"Well, we covered a lot of ground today. I'll take pictures of where we left off and we can pick it back up," Darius said optimistically while Gil discreetly wiped his nose on his glove.

"Darius. Lights off. Mute the sound," Gil said. He squeezed the volume key of his phone which went on silent mode.

Gil detected a vibration thrumming from the ground to the tired soles of his feet. He drew his firearm and Darius followed suit.

"Ya feel that?" Darius said quietly.

"Yes. Now shhh," Gil reacted.

They crept further along and heard the jarring squeal and rumble of an industrial car crusher inexplicably flattening a small vehicle. From Gil's perspective, he spotted a rumpled swath of beige canvas protruding from the bottom of the passenger door.

His attention disrupted, Gil lagged after Darius who immediately gave chase to the unknown operator of the car crusher. Speed was crucial; if the trespasser made it to the indistinguishable rusty columns of compacted cars, Gil and Darius would be left with questions stacked higher than garbage.

Gil shot left of their fleeing target. Darius galloped to the right when their target reacted to the gunshots. Their target plowed into Darius's left side and Darius grappled the unknown person, rolling on the frozen dirt. Gil clicked the safety and extended his cuffs. 

"He's armed!" Darius shouted.

Gil immediately dropped and twisted the person's arm. His nose bled from the person headbutting him but he was too keyed up to register the tender injury, intent on the reassuring click of fastened handcuffs. Darius had the concealed gun in his grasp, pointed towards the night sky. The arrest wasn't completed, not by a long shot. They had to hike it back to their vehicle which meant freezing their butts off.

Darius couldn't find a wallet. Their suspect was a young male, light skinned, Hispanic, black hair, black beard, skinny. He carried a go phone. When their suspect attempted another escape, they used Darius's cuffs and anchored the young male to a detached car door missing its window.

Gil and Darius stopped their questioning and avoided injuring the young man's head any further.

"Darius… before you call for backup, go look at the car crusher. I saw something in the passenger door," Gil said. "If it's what I think it is, we got ourselves a homicide."

When Darius returned, he stomped the car door that prevented their unnamed perpetrator's escape, his shoulders pumping up and down as he contained his fury.

"Called it in. I can't get the door open. Someone was in that ride," Darius explained bitterly. "Man, why didn't you turn it off when you ran?"

"Please tell me you used your gun on them before throwing them in like that." Darius swore as he stomped around to keep warm.

"Detective. This isn't our case. We have to leave it to Bronx police," said Gil.

Officers and firemen showed up to the junkyard, delayed from carting in equipment by foot. The officers took their unnamed perpetrator into custody while the firemen carried out the grim task of prying open the crushed car. Death investigators came in with flood lights and cameras. 

Meanwhile Detective Owen Shannon, a 6’ tall man of Irish descent on the cusp of his fiftieth birthday, arrived on the scene to interview Gil and Darius. 

He had a fine head of hair which appeared to be a lustrous silver overall with dark grays topping his pate. In a navy blazer, no necktie, with the tops of his shirt unbuttoned, something of his bearing suggested that his relaxed dress was deliberate. He stood like a pillar, the only acknowledgment to Gil a terse nod and a flick of his dark brown eyes.

He displayed his badge. "I'm the detective investigating a spree of disappearances within the Bronx. This falls under my purview." 

"Warrant," Shannon said.

Darius looked to Gil, who produced the search warrant.

Shannon waved it away. "Explain to me how it is that you're impinging on my work, yet again."

"We couldn't get ahold of the owner of this junkyard. Paul Lazar. We're looking for a vehicle we believe is linked to an ongoing investigation. '96 Buick Roadmaster Lima Uniform Kilo one five eleven. Blue," Gil explained.

Shannon grilled them about the events leading up to the arrest of their no name. Once he concluded their interview, Shannon dismissed them. "If my team finds your blue Buick, I'll have my people call yours. Thanks in advance for your cooperation."

"Gil, who is that jerk?" Darius said. "That felt totally personal, how he spoke to us."

They had another half mile to hoof it.

"Detective Shannon previously worked the Surgeon cases before his reassignment in the early 2000s," said Gil. "He's one of our best."

"Why did he get reassigned?" retorted Darius.

"That is between Salvy, Shannon, and the Commissioner," Gil said. "Even I don't know how everything went down. I just know it went down."

"Gil, you're holding out on me," Darius pushed. "C'mon man, we caught a scumbag who crushed a whole person."

Gil sighed. "Alright. In '96, me and Salvy answered a call for a Bronx man who looked like he curled up and died. It would’ve been an isolated case if not for the senior Chief Medical Examiner who eventually retired after almost 30 years’ experience. Old Dr. Bellamy pointed Salvy to an unsolved death in ‘92. Magda Winslow."

"Then I went on leave to be with Jackie, kinda left my partner in the lurch. I didn’t care because I buried my wife months after we lost our baby. While I was out, Detective Owen Shannon buddied up with Salvy. Shannon was the detective who fielded the press when The Times journalist broke the story on The Surgeon.”

"I always thought the Surgeon had the luck of the devil. 9/11 let him fade out of the public’s radar. An opportunist named Desmond Reeves saw his chance to prey on innocent people. Desmond Reeves killed because he knew that the cops would be busy dealing with post 9/11 detail. Reeves targeted Arab men but he screwed up when he murdered Liam Boutsikaris, a Greek boy who converted to Islam to piss off his family."

“Salvy was dead set on Reeves as the Surgeon but him and Shannon got into it. At first, I went with Salvy because he risked his life. Reeves could’ve killed him. But Shannon must’ve buzzed in someone’s ear because Salvy had to prove that Reeves murdered Magda Winslow. He couldn't." 

"Still, Salvy caught a serial killer. Make him a Lieutenant,” Gil added.

"How did you go from beat cop to detective?" Darius finally asked.

"Salvy talk me into it after his heart issues. Stay alive til your baby can wipe itself, Gil. Be my partner no homo," Gil said.

"Drinks. We're doing drinks. My treat," said Darius. "We're not getting hammered but I cannot take this home with me."

"Drinks are the last thing we need. We're both hopped up on adrenaline. Better to hit the gym and punch a bag til lights out. That's how you stay cut and sleep like a kid."

Darius shook his head.

"Or you could skip to doing your job with a hangover," Gil said.

"Hold up, Gil. Let me grab my shorts from my locker. I want to be fresh as a daisy when we get slammed," Darius conceded.

* * *

Lieutenant Salvy sent them to 40th Precinct first thing when Gil clocked in 72 hours later. "You two get your butts over to the Bronx. A certain vehicle was impounded for an invalid license."

"The Buick," said Gil immediately.

"Blast from the past. Give Owen my best regards," said Salvy.

"We're here to see Detective Shannon," Darius informed the reception desk. His badge was plainly displayed on his chest.

"I can help you. Detective Ian Turner. I work with Owen." He was a black guy in his 40s with short trimmed textured black hair, taller than Gil and slight in build.

"Thanks for walking us back. We're here for the Buick," Gil said.

"The Buick is penned up in another lot. Hear us out first. We have no choice but to work together."

They were situated in an internal conference room. The cushioned chairs and clean white board indicated the room was dedicated for staff usage. 

"Yeah, hi. We have Paul Lazar," said Detective Shannon, lunging to the point.

"Great. May we question him right away?" requested Gil, not skipping a beat.

"He's been illegally driving the Buick you want," continued Detective Shannon.

"That's a useful connection. Can we speak to him about it? He can tell us if he purchased it from a person we view as a suspect," said Darius.

Detective Shannon smiled. Detective Turner crossed his arms, a spark of humor as he glanced between Gil and Darius.

"Paul Lazar's been declared dead since 2002, reported missing in 95," Detective Shannon said. "I've been up all night wracking my brains on how a man named Lazar rose from the dead."

"Driving a car that came out the year after he was last seen alive," said Turner.

"And running his own business from the grave," concluded Shannon.

"So then who do you gentlemen have in custody?" Darius inquired politely.

"Why are you two obsessed with an old car?" retorted Shannon.

"For Christ's sake, Shannon. I'm not here to play the game. All we have to go on is the station wagon. And a man whose name is John."

Gil whipped out the photo which crumpled in his wallet. "This is his car."

"That's almost a perfect match, but you gave us a dud license number. Our Buick is Juliet Hotel November one one fourteen. Registered to John Watkins," revealed Shannon.

Turner was more forthcoming. "John Watkins is the man who you apprehended three days ago in the junkyard. We've since recovered the bodies who are being processed for identification. Owen will release his name to the news teams once the medical examiner's office matches each body to individuals reported as missing. What we need to know from you is why you've been in pursuit of our Bronx man."

"Why are you poaching on our turf?" demanded Shannon.

"Take us to the Buick. It's our only link between John Watkins and Dr. Whitly."

"Who is Dr. Whitly?" asked Turner.

Darius and Gil clammed up, standing shoulder to shoulder, unrelenting.

Turner and Shannon went back and forth in their own corner before Turner wrote the address to the Buick in dry marker on the whiteboard.

The four of them convened where the Buick was towed. Shannon produced a single key. "John didn't have anything on him but a gun registered to, you guessed it, Paul Lazar. We searched the locked Buick and found this key balanced on one of the tires. He's a crafty bastard."

Gil pulled open the rear door and pointed out metal brackets in the car. "Darius."

"We need you guys to keep John Watkins' name under wraps, especially from news outlets. At least until we can arrest Dr. Whitly."

"Who is Dr. Whitly?" repeated Turner.

Gil handed the photo to Shannon like a peace offering. Shannon regarded Gil disdainfully before accepting it. Shannon noted the Buick, the orange timestamp, the little boy, and the proud father.

"John Watkins took this photograph of Dr. Whitly, his mentor, his teacher… We know him as the Surgeon," Gil divulged.

"I'll be damned. You were right on his trail, Owen. The Surgeon had a clean up guy. You were right all along," Turner said apologetically.

Shannon crumpled the photo in his hand. "Let's get the bastard."

* * *

40th Precinct 

Bronx, NY

2007

“Talk to us about your time at St. Edwards hospital,” said Detective Gil. His partner Darius silently pulled a single sheet which was a copy of a work badge for a St. Edwards employee named John S. Watkins. The badge was expired since 1997. The blurred photo was of a young man with a deep beige complexion in his 20s with a basic haircut and a thin mustache and a soul patch. The magnified picture had streaks of pink and green.

“What do the middle initial S stand for, Mr. Watkins?” asked Darius.

“Means Saul.”

“Today you go by Paul Lazar? This is to confirm the record,” said Gil while Darius wrote on a paper form.

“No, Paul Lazar was my business alias,” denied the criminal. 

“When you were employed at St. Edwards, you answered to John Watkins. That’s how you signed off on your tasks,” said Gil. His fingers tapped the photocopy.

“What inspired the change, John? I understand you changed jobs and then took a different name,” Gil said.

“Wanted a fresh start. I got paid more, had more days off, and I was a different person after a certain point. What about it,” answered John.

“Can I presume you was happier than at St. Edwards?” Darius replied.

“I made almost nothing at the old job,” retorted John. “Wouldn’t you be, too?”

“How much did you make as an orderly?” Gil questioned.

“I made $11.46 an hour,” answered John.

“Where were you living while you worked?”

“You could look me up on the white pages,” John said obstinately.

Darius read off an address in the neighborhood of Morrisania, 15 minutes’ drive from Fordham where Jackie’s family lived before relocating to Brooklyn. “This you, Mr. Watkins?”  
  


“You got it, officer,” drawled John. 

“How much you pay to live there?” Darius pressed.

“Bout 500,” answered John. “Is this a fucking survey you make all your customers fill out?”

“We’re crossing our t’s and dotting our i’s,” Darius explained. His demeanor of taking every little thing seriously removed condescension or mockery in his tone. “You’d be surprised how many suspects walk free because investigators forgot to carry the one when adding up facts for a case.”

As they questioned John, they learned about a particularly trying period in their perpetrator’s young adult life. He was 22 years old in his last year of employment at St. Edward’s Hospital. His educational level was one year of community college for an associates but he failed the GPA requirements in his fourth semester after being put on academic probation in his third semester. 

“My tuition was $6664.66. Probably the universe tryna tell me somethin,” laughed John in self-effacing humor. “I borrowed 7k. It was a private unsubbed loan. After chewing me up and spittin me out, the devil come to collect his dues from me. I was in the hole for ten grand.”

“How did you make rent then? If you were paying down an unsecured loan, paying your bills, your bus pass…”

“That was $63 back in the day,” Darius chipped in.

“I know. How much MTA hike it up to now?” Gil asked mildly.

“It’ll set you back $76,” Darius said.

“You didn’t have much to play with. So can we,” Gil gestured between himself and Darius,”assume that you were robbing people to make ends meet in your difficulties? Were you the one taking money off of the women and men who you murdered?”

At this point, John's appointed attorney, a public defender, objected to the accusations. "Please stick to the charges relevant to my client."

“I got this. I’ve never stolen in my life,” spat John. “I’m no thief. My guess is whoever discovered the bodies helped themselves to a finder’s fee before calling the fuzz!”

“Alright, alright, be cool man,” Darius said. “If you’ve always worked for an honest living, how did you gather the funds for the purchase of this vehicle?”

They showed John a black and white printout of a ‘96 blue station wagon with the faux wood panels. 

“Previous owner, a Mr. Lychalk, confirms the sale of his Buick for eight grand. He remembers that you paid him in full, in cash,” stated Darius. He chuckled and shook his head. “Nice guy, says he would’ve given it to you for six.”

“That’s a large piggy bank,” said Gil. “You’ve got one that can fit thousands of dollars?”

“If you squirreled away a couple hundred every month for ‘bout three years, it’s not impossible,” said Darius, assessing. “If you didn’t eat, ever, it’s do-able.”

“We ran wage checks on you, Mr. Watkins. Did your family help you out to the tune of eight thousand dollars??” Gil inquired.

John snorted and crossed his arms. “What fam? I never knew my father. My mother and her boyfriend dumped me in hell.”

“Look,” John said. “I had the money, I bought the car. That’s not a crime. I’m prepared to do up a confession on how I killed all these people. I did it. I’m the one.”

Death investigation teams had exhumed five decomposed and compacted corpses in the junkyard. Medical examiner Dr. Shanice had informed Darius that Watkins' most recent victim, a transgendered MTF woman, was likely alive when she/they were in the vehicle. Gil had seen the victim's trench coat caught in the car door prior to Darius capturing Watkins. 

“We appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Watkins,” Darius said.

Gil made a show of pulling up his sleeve and checking his watch. He pointed at his wrist as he faced Darius. Darius talked to John while Gil gathered up his papers and walked out.

“Have you quite finished with the junkyard rat?” Detective Shannon questioned.

“I’m tagged out. Darius has our fellow,” Gil said.

“Fine. Pray tell, you haven’t sabotaged the interview by name dropping the actual identity of The Surgeon.”

“Not a word. Thought I’d leave it to the Surgeon’s biggest fan,” Gil said.

Detective Shannon looked incensed.

“What? You’re going to go in there, take him apart, and show him his own guts,” said Gil.

“Funny. Your humor has a dated charm,” Detective Shannon commented. “But what else would one expect of the clown who failed to take our notorious killer downtown?”

Detective Shannon brushed past Gil with the audacity of an alpha wolf, smirking when he noted Gil’s raised hackles. “You could’ve had our man on a silver platter, but no matter. You are in the presence of an expert. I’ve got it now and I’ll set it right.”

Darius came out of the interrogation about 90 minutes later and reported no progress with Watkins despite Detective Shannon's stringent efforts. Shannon had, in fact, browbeaten John into sullenness.

* * *

"Tally, can you type me something up real quick and fax me? I need you to put together a job rec letter with letterhead from St Edwards Hospital. Signed by a surgeon."

"One, I don't work for you. Two, I'm on lunch. Three, you sound shady as hell." She chewed her croutons over the phone line.

"Please. It's for a case. I need it now. I need it to look convincing. Please, it is life and death. You won't get named."

"If we weren't sorta family, I swear to God," Tally muttered over the phone. "I fired up the desktop. What do you want it to say?"

Gil read a few short statements to Tally, merely listing facts such as when John began working for St Edwards, his job title, and his job description.

"Alright Pez. I put the St Edwards website logo on top header and inserted business info in the footer. What nice things do you have to say about your dear John? You have 5 minutes."

Once Gil obeyed, Tally hit him with another curveball. "Pez, you still have Whitly's paperwork? I need a fax of Dr. Whitly's signature. Use a cover sheet Attention: Thalia."

He furnished Dr. Whitly's signature from when Malcolm Whitly disappeared and his poor family filed their missing child report. The report pre-dated office policy to scan docs into their open case database. Gil kept a copy in his desk because it was his pet peeve. 

"Thank you Tally. I am glad you use your powers for good," Gil complimented her. He was not above flattery.

"I better hear good news about Malcolm, Pez. When you wanna buy me lunch?" Tally responded before Gil had to hang up.

Darius gave him the folder on John Watkins. Gil clipped the letter which Tally typed to the front of the file. If he didn't know any better, it looked legitimate and John would recognize Dr. Whitly's signature.

"Are we still recording?" Gil inquired, meaning video and audio.

"Yes. Shannon's with Mr. Watkins and the lawyer," Darius answered.

"You tag out. I'll go in for this round. Thanks Darius." 

Darius squeezed his arm and opened the door for Gil where John Watkins, his lawyer, and Detective Shannon awaited.

Gil held the file under his arm and slopped it onto the table.

Detective Shannon announced Gil's presence in the ongoing interview. So far, Watkins admitted to acting alone for the only murder with which NYPD charged him.

"Mr. Watkins. Describe your relationship with Dr. Whitly. Were you close?"

"We worked together. I only heard from him if I screwed up pre-op," said John.

"A couple of your co-workers who remember you mentioned that occasionally they saw you eating with Dr. Whitly."

"You've never heard of a crowded lunchroom, detective? You can put your tray on a full table and keep your mouth shut beyond chew and swallow," said John. "We didn't hang out at work or outside of work."

"When you changed jobs, you listed Dr. Whitly and your supervisor as a professional reference," Shannon pointed out.

"That confirms you and Dr. Whitly were friendly," said Gil.

"We didn't have any issues. Most people vouch for you if you haven't screwed them over. Pretty simple." John crossed his arms and smiled. "Doesn't mean I sucked him off."

"He had a special interest in you and looked after you. You have a connection with him. You hunted with him. You murdered. Nothing else would explain how an older man twice your age would buy you a car," accused Shannon.

"Don't take the bait. Unless there's a bill of sale with your names as joint buyers, Dr. Whitly was not tangibly involved in that transaction," counseled Watkin's lawyer.

Shannon leaned in and Gil tapped his leg twice in a nonverbal signal. Shannon announced a 5 min break, stopped the recorder, and made for the door. Gil closed Watkin's file and put it down horizontally on the table.

"What was that, Arroyo? I have to build up my mean streak again. Waste of tape."

"He's loyal. Did you notice he hasn't had an unkind word about Whitly. You saying that Whitly is evil made him mad but quiet. You keep going for the little guy, you'll miss the big boss. They're expecting us to be straight nasty."

"You want to nice our way into an admission? From a junk rat? Fuck off," Shannon chortled.

"You like your old man, Shannon?"

"Mean bastard, beat the trash out of me." Shannon stated it like facts.

"Was he around though?" Gil pressed.

"Of course he was. He knew what we were doing, harassed us. Hard to measure up. The hell's your point."

"Imagine that Whitly's the only father you knew. If you ran away or if you stuck around, you're screwed." Gil understood, after his time with Bright.

"Whitly is his weakness. Not having a pop, definitely a pain point," Shannon considered. "You get it in there and nice it up for our uniquely broken rat man."

"What's this?" John asked when the detectives returned. He turned his case file sideways and jabbed at the signed letter with St Edwards logo.

"It's not evidence," Gil said. He nodded to Shannon.

Shannon activated the recorder.

John interrupted Gil before he finished his warm-up question. "No judge would come after Dr. Martin. He's as good as gold. You never catch him doing any bad. Everyone respects him. He's not as pompous as the other doctors."

"You'd say that he's good to you and respects you?" Gil repeated.

"That's not a crime. Far from it. You know when people saw us lunching at a table, it's cuz he was treating me to a healthy lunch. 'John, Dr. Martin says. Healthy habits now mean I never see you for a consult.'" 

"And I'd tell him, Dr. Martin, your rates would give me a stroke,'" John said.

"And if he lectured me too long, I'd say "beans, beans' and... " John put his palm to his mouth and puffed to make flatulent noises.

"What did you normally have to eat?" Shannon asked.

"My grandma would fix me a frozen dinner when I came back from the job. It's all she could do with her eyes going. I'd get chicken tenders and fries and then just skip lunch til next pay. You know what you have to do sometimes."

"Soft pretzels," agreed Shannon. "Or cheese pizza, no meat."

"What, no donuts?"

They had him making jokes. He was the sort who wanted approval from people laughing at his wisecracks.

"Believe it or not, the city won't front you a baker's dozen when you're on stakeout. Past a dollars to donuts limit, we don't get compensated," Shannon explained. "And you must pay up first and submit receipts and it's not worth it for donuts."

"We're all grown. We know what it's like to pay your own way. You do your best not to get behind. But when you're too big, no one helps," Gil added.

"That's not anyone else's fault tho. I didn't bitch or moan when I was sinking. I figure people just people. They have their own problems. I don't blame anyone for me getting into a hole. I did it to myself and anyone who help get sunk, too," opined John.

"Sounds like you were doing your best when you were at St Edwards. Was it a big deal when Dr. Whitly bought lunch?"

"Nah, no way. With how much doctors make. Are you kidding me? My paycheck was like milk money to that guy," John said.

"Did Dr. Whitly eat extravagant lunches?"

"Naw, he's a heart doc. He told me once that his father died before he finished school. Heart disease. Dr. Whitly cared about eating right. And when I let him, he helped me without asking anything back. I didn't have to kiss up either."

"Sounds like you were good friends. He wouldn't have bothered if he didn't like you, right?" Gil asked.

"He tells me that I know just what to say. Told me. Thinks I'm funny," John repeated, correcting himself.

"Would you say that it's out of character for Dr. Whitly to give you glowing recommendations any time you were in-between jobs? Seems to me that after St Edwards, you never worked longer than 6 months anywhere."

"That's why I decided to go into business, be my own boss, keep my own hours. Mostly I keep to myself, keep my head down," said John. "I'm not an idiot when I do have the money. I've been running my own joint for years."

"The junkyard," Shannon added.

"How'd you get the money for the car, the junkyard?" prompted Gil.

"Mr. Watkins, I advise you to pass," spoke the public defender. "Detectives, unless Dr. Whitly cut my client a check, you're speculating as to the various avenues my client took for revenue."

"Well, then who else looked out for your client? Mr. Watkins, was there anyone in your life who gave a crap about you besides Whitly? Anyone? Anyone who would vouch for you when you were pounding the pavement? Anyone who makes sure you eat when the month gets long? Anyone else who would loan you money to set up shop?" Gil demanded, impassioned. "If Whitly wasn't your friend, then who was?"

John put his hands to his ears and squinted his eyes, his shoulders shaking.

"Are we wrong? Whitly's not evil, but a good man, a good friend? He's your friend even now," Gil stated.

The perpetrator nodded, snorting down his tears. "Shut up about him."

"Alright, back to you. How did you hold up your end of the deal? How were you a friend of his?" Shannon interrogated, chomping at the bit to bust open John's weakness.

John looked up at them, his lips shaking, his jaw tight. "He asked me to do things. But he gave me chances to walk away. After the fact, I really couldn't stop."

"Things," Gil repeated.

John's eyes were black with his own choices marking his soul forever. Perhaps two minutes of tape was all it took for John to elaborate how far things went between him and Martin.

Gil finalized the interrogation, not at all triumphant. A young man's life ruined and he would languish in darkness however long that he served time in prison.

As the cuffs locked into place, John nodded at the file with the letter. "I can handle being alone. I been alone forever, seems like. It's not bad when one person gives a shit."

Later on, Shannon found Gil.

"He won't be alone for too long. Let's go get that friend of his," Shannon chuckled.

Shannon took up Watkins's file and read aloud the St. Edwards letter. "While I'm saddened by his leaving, I highly recommend him for the position. John is a smart and resourceful young man with a wonderfully positive attitude who has much to offer."

"Maybe Dr. Whitly was the one sucking his John off," Shannon sneered.

Gil crumpled the letter and dunked it into the garbage bin.

"Hey, isn't that--"

"It's not evidence," Gil stated.

"Did you make up all that jazz?"

"Not all of it. I borrowed from my instructor. They're retired now but I never forgot how they encouraged me," said Gil.

"Fair enough. You did great with the small fry. Time to reel in our big catch," Shannon rubbed his hands.

"Where's the bait?" asked Shannon.

"His name's Malcolm Whitly. He's in custody. Protective custody. I'll have to reach out with Salvy's permission."

“I would be very interested in speaking with the elusive Malcolm Whitly,” said Detective Shannon, eyes ablaze.

Every instinct in Gil screamed, ‘You can’t have him!’

The visual of Detective Shannon cornering Bright in a small room scorched Gil’s blood. Gil swiftly relinquished the notoriety of arresting the Surgeon to protect and to serve the innocent.

“That’s reasonable,” Gil conceded. “You don’t object to me placing Dr. Whitly under arrest while you’re engaged in that interview with the younger Whitly? I thought you’d want to cuff the Surgeon yourself.”

“I’d rather handle the unpleasantness of securing the doctor. He’s mine,” Detective Shannon iterated aggressively. "Considering young Malcolm’s ordeal, I’m sorry to miss out."

Detective Shannon twirled an unlit cigarette perched between two fingers, bouncing on his heels, as Gil made a long awaited phone call. Malcolm remained in protective custody but Gil was able to reach the service number for Lake Placid police, verify his clearance with the supervising captain, and obtain a restricted landline number.

“Hello, Bright residence.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You don't just kill for someone. But what if someone saw you was hungry and you got fed? Or hears you drowning and a couple hundred bucks a lifeline? And if your friend give you money for a station wagon and he borrow it and give it back to you cleaned up with a full tank of gas? 
> 
> A good father provides. If a man takes care of you like that, you can at least do what he asks.
> 
> At least, that's how I picture an evil genius grooming a henchman.


	8. Good News Last

19th Precinct 

Manhattan

2007

When Gil phoned Jessica from the precinct, he deliberately aimed for that narrow window when Jessica dropped off her children, when she was guaranteed to miss his call. He let the call go to her voicemail, leaving a perfunctory message for her. Then Gil dialed Dr. Whitly's personal cell phone, trusting that the man would pick up from the service number on caller ID.

As Gil typically spoke with Jessica on all matters pertaining to their missing child, Gil needed a reason to get Dr. Whitly without hinting at NYPD business.

"Hi, Dr. Martin. Detective Arroyo," said Gil. "I tried your wife earlier but couldn't get in touch. Is this a good time to talk?"

Gil put his finger to his lips when the officer on intake duty approached his desk and waved a paper written with the words "Jessica W. called." 

"Good morning, Detective. I'm busy, but do go on. Please," said Dr. Whitly.

"We need you and Jessica to come downtown. It's about your son," said Gil.

"Can we do this morning? I will leave work this instant," offered Dr. Whitly.

"Both you and your wife must be present," said Gil emphatically. "Call if something comes up for either one of you."

"Will do. Good Lord. Jessica's calling me. Talk soon, Detective," said Dr. Whitly as he ended the call.

Jessica got through to Gil shortly after. "Gil, we'll be there in 35 min. This traffic! Please, please tell me if my baby's dead. I need to know. The car's stopped. I can't breathe!! Gil. Gil?"

She was hysterical, dramatic, and genuinely distressed beyond measure. Gil wanted to give her peace but his team had worked diligently and jeopardized their personal safety. As the man designated to lure in a murderer, Gil couldn't falter. Never mind their friendship and their understanding. 

Gil selected his words with painful care. If he apologized, she would assume that her son was dead. He didn't want to inadvertently add to her suffering.

"Get to the station, Jessica. I can't say more over the phone," Gil said. He covered his mouth, scratched his beard.

"Jessica, please. You're harassing NYPD--"

The call cut off as Dr. Whitly reasoned with her in the background. In a cruel world, an innocent woman sounded like a crazy bitch while a monster in a white coat articulated himself thoughtfully with consideration.

"They're on their way, Salvy," Gil confirmed.

"Good man. Nicely done," said Salvy. He turned from Gil's desk. "Places, people! Places, places, places."

Underneath his desk, Gil shook his legs. Detective Shannon occupied Darius's desk. Darius stood in the hallway, ready with his Taser. Detective Turner waited in an interrogation room to receive their special guest. JT brought in his girlfriend's baked kringle.

Gil wasn't pleased about JT dating Tally and blamed himself for crossing their paths.

"Salvy has you set up with tea and breakfast?" Gil was on the phone with Bright.

"I'm fine here. Thanks Gil. I feel like I'm sick. I really don't have to see my father for this to work?"

"Stay put, Bright. You father will be up to his ass in brass. Comprende? Now what are you going to do?"

"Wait for Gil," Bright answered.

"Good boy. You _can_ learn. We'll see you soon, kid," Gil promised. He ended the call and stopped fidgeting, his resolve firmer from the sound of Bright's voice.

Martin Whitly strode in, assessing, arresting in his sophistication. He was taller and built well in a long, dark coat. A red scarf hung over his shoulders. When he removed his kid gloves, his nails were evenly cut and polished, cuticles trimmed. He was in good shape, neither underfed or overweight, the crisp fit of his $10,000 suit on his healthy body the ultimate credential to his godliness as THE cardiology expert. 

While Martin was pale, his skin was smooth and even toned, neither bloated or sunken. While many of his peers turned to hair plugs and dye, Martin went no further than conditioning and combing his ends neatly. Despite losing some of his hairline, Martin had volume to work with, a healthy tuft when one approached him from behind. Overall, his hair remained dark, but for streaks of silver. Similarly for his beard, its thickness and luster radiating his vitality.

His brows remained strong and defined. Of course he suffered dark under eyes, but that was any disciplined professional's burden, managing the tension of performing his vocation and ruling his household. Martin's eyes bore an enigmatic quality as their coloring shifted drastically from steel traps to blue flames, alight with passion that ordinary living could never sate.

Martin stood facing the law enforcement staff, ready and present. His energy was impressively virile, bolstered as his faithful and dark beauty of a prized wife held his coat without being told.

"Greetings and salutations. I'm Dr. Martin Whitly, here with my spouse Jessica. We're expected."

Gil saw them, stepped into Martin's cologne, and shook hands. 

"Whitlys. Follow me," said Gil. He stepped neutrally down the hall, leading them to the discussion room with the interior blinds slatted closed, obscuring the transparent glass walls. 

Jessica, bless her five inch heels, daintily fell behind the men's brusque pace. Salvy approached her and intercepted with an offer to take her husband's heavy coat.

"I insist. Won't take but a minute, Jessica. Come with me," coaxed Salvy. Jessica's face turned but she didn't see her husband.

"Come along," said Salvy. He had the coat, her husband's red scarf dragged on the grunge linoleum floor. Jessica's heels clattered after him.

"Lt Fugaze, watch the scarf!" Jessica protested. She quickened her mincing steps, following Salvy to his office.

Gil left Detective Shannon, Turner, and Darius to follow up with Martin. He hustled to Salvy's, the bottom of his dress shoes sliding over the office threshold.

"Gil, what in heaven?" Jessica demanded. Salvy had his hands on her shoulders, but Jessica resisted his nudging to keep her seated.

Gil surveyed the scene amusedly. Salvy's cushy chair was swiveled backwards, the back of it pushed against Salvy's desk. An empty mug and an untouched sammich sat on the desk, empty except for an office phone and desk lamp.

"We found your son. Or rather, he found us," Salvy said.

"Alive? Malcolm…" Teardrops gathered on her volumized lashes. Her mouth opened as she flecked away the tears.

"Take me to him at once!" Jessica commanded, her lips a thin, berry tinted line.

Salvy's chair shifted until its occupant faced forward, startling Jessica. Malcolm rose from his seat, dressed comfortably in his favorite I Heart NY sweats. He tucked his chin length hair behind his ear. He had shaved.

"Mommy," Bright said. "I'm sorry. Can we go home?"

Jessica's hands were raised to her face, her painted fingers loosely curled, her nose scrunched and her teeth bared as she wept. Tears dribbled from her dimpled chin.

"Baby, my baby, of course we can. We're a family again. Oh my Malcolm, you've grown," blubbered Jessica. She threw down her husband's coat, stepped over the pile, and Malcolm ran into her arms. 

Jessica pressed her cheek to his face, her gilded fingers possessively caged around his head, securing him like a baby bird.

"We'll take you to our manor and get you out of _these rags._ You simply must have only the best _._ We'll have to buy you... everything." Her hand slowly arched through the air like a queen surveying her glittery realm, her fingers pinched around an invisible credit card.

"Jessica, you and Malcolm are welcome to leave. However, we've arrested your husband,” spoke Lt. Fugaze.

Jessica clutched Malcolm tighter until his cheeks puffed and his eyes bugged out from zero intake of oxygen. Fear clouded her shining face. "No. We all have to go to the house and be a family."

"Jessica."

"What has he done? What has Martin possibly done? You know him, Gil."

"He's wanted for murder, Jessica," Gil answered.

"Who? Tell me, damn it, who?" Jessica uttered. She released Malcolm and stepped in front of him to confront Gil.

"She doesn't need to hear how much murder," Malcolm added, raspy as he caught his breath.

Jessica's volumized lashes fluttered, her shimmery made up eyelids drooping, and she collapsed into Malcolm's arms.

"Mother!"

The men heard the commotion in the hallway. Salvy commented, "And there goes your father, sport."

"Do you want to see him?" asked Salvy. His dulled, coffee-stained teeth flashed when Malcolm refused. "Suit yourself. I'll be overseeing the arrest then. Can't let Owen do all the work."

"Gil, can you help my mother to the couch?" Malcolm's arms trembled.

"Kid, you need more practice talking to girls. 'How much murder.' Seriously," said Gil. He picked up Jessica and laid her out on Salvy's couch.

"Will she be alright?" Malcolm asked. He hunched down and held her hand.

"She'll be strong." Gil was certain.

"It's not over when I return to my family," Malcolm realized.

"It never stopped, Bright. This time around, will you run for the hills?" Gil said, laying a comforting hand on Malcolm's neck.

Malcolm shook his head.

"Good. I'd have to arrest you, too. Jessica would never forgive me," said Gil. "Tell you what, when your mother wakes up, I'll drive the both of you back."

Bright threw Gil a grateful look before his mother stirred, wheezing for drink.

* * *

19th Precinct 

Manhattan

2007

Owen Shannon primed himself for the pinnacle of his career when he slapped his cuffs on to Dr. Whitly. He wouldn't forget putting his hands on the man, smelling the masculine bouquet which his pricey threads exuded, knocking his prey off balance and throwing around his weight. Shannon experienced a vicious exaltation from upsetting Dr. Whitly's equilibrium.

As Shannon and Turner marched Dr. Whitly straight to an interrogation room for questioning, Dr. Whitly frantically called for his wife Jessica. Lieutenant Fugaze stepped out of his office and shut his office door. Fugaze sent Dr. Whitly a friendly wave, crossing his arms as he relished the spectacle of the arrest. Dr. Whitly's eyes lingered on that door as they dragged him.

Shannon's partner, Ian, folded his hands on the table and recited Dr. Whitly's rights under arrest. Whitly remained calm, not a single phrase from his mouth that didn't mention his attorney.

Shannon liberally peppered photos of the Surgeon's victims underneath Dr. Whitly's nose.

Dr. Whitly took a second glance, but made no move besides licking his dry lips. His teeth were straight and obviously whitened, gleaming through his thin lips. Dr. Whitly moisturized. His cheeks and his thin and pointed nose were free of dry patches. With the hairs in his beard trimmed and shaped, he looked very well indeed. The better he looked, the more Shannon gleefully engaged.

"I've followed your work for a while, as you can tell. Started a collection of my own, but it don't compare to the original source."

"I'm afraid I can't take credit," murmured Dr. Whitly. He said no more prior to the arrival of his attorney.

Once the attorney arrived, Dr. Whitly vociferously demanded to see his wife.

"Mrs. Whitly went home hours ago, I'm afraid."

"That's a lie. Jessica would not leave without seeing me," Dr. Whitly asserted. "At the very least, she'd want a look at me in handcuffs."

"Martin, I'll handle this. What are you charging my client with?" inquired attorney Everett Sterling.

"We're charging him as the named accomplice of one Mr. John Watkins, who's confessed to six counts of murder in the second degree," informed Detective Ian. "At this time, NYPD is reviewing twenty-three cold cases while also gathering evidence to link an ongoing open case."

"It'll be quite a trial. We believe that we have the Surgeon in custody," quipped Shannon. "We have evidence on Mr. Watkins who was caught in the act and arrested by detectives. We have a witness to testify in court. Not much of a witness but they've got a pulse."

Shannon winked at Dr. Whitly. Turner maintained the conversation with attorney Sterling. 

"Mr. Watkins' lawyer will plead insanity to ideally thirty charges of murder in the second degree. Your client, Dr. Whitly, will be prosecuted for his secondary role in at least six of those thirty murders and serve time in maximum security federal prison upon his conviction," informed Turner.

"Whitly can also plead insanity, but if we prove that Watkins is the Surgeon, Watkins will receive lifelong treatment in a ward for the criminally insane. Watkins will be given accommodations for his disorders. Meanwhile, the state medical board will revoke Whitly's license for unprofessional conduct. Jury's going to take a gander at Whitly's medical credentials and unanimously reject his insanity plea."

Shannon jumped in with every dramatic nerve ending he possessed. "And Watkins will go down in history as the most notorious serial killer of the century, America's own Jack the Ripper."

"And you, doctor. Oh excuse me, you won't be practicing. You, Mr. Whitly, if you name your associate as the Surgeon, take the deal and we'll downgrade your offenses to one count Manslaughter in the 2nd degree. That's fifteen years, but I like you. You could get paroled in ten, Mr. Whitly, sir. Retire early and no one remember you. How's that?" Shannon tamped down the urge to kiss his fingers like a chef after he masterfully laid out options that colored Dr. Whitly's face puce.

"You could probably snap up a book deal. Take ten years and write your book in your cell. No one but you could appreciate the Surgeon's brilliance. Watkins, the gifted genius, as told by his helper. One for my Sony Reader," uttered Shannon.

"We'll leave you two gentlemen to confer. We'll check in," Turner assured them.

As soon as the door to the interrogation room closed, Turner stopped Shannon.

"Where did THAT come from? You were on fire, Owen."

"I read this book written by an FBI nutjob. His ideas were fucking crazy but how else do you get psychos to talk?"

Shannon slumped into the wall. "It has to work, Ian. By God. If that bastard listens to his attorney, he could get acquitted and go back to cutting folks open."

Turner leaned onto Shannon. They clasped hands, pressing their shoulders tightly to hide their joined palms.

"Win or lose, give some thought to what you'll do with yourself after the sentencing. Live a little."

"Says the stick in the mud," muttered Shannon.

"I know you want it bad. Be ready to move forward." Turner shook Shannon's hand, like a wake up call.

"OK, Chief. Good grief, Chief. Are you this much of a darn nag to your boyfriend?"

"Fiancé, actually," corrected Turner.

"You're crazy, where would you guys get married," said Shannon dubiously. New York didn’t do same sex marriages.

"We're ready for a long engagement. Maybe when the war's over, we'll get to marry each other," said Turner wistfully.

"Wait it out," Shannon said.

"Yeah. Just wait," agreed Turner.

"It's been an hour." Since they left Whitly with his attorney.

"Make it another hour and then we go in," said Turner.

"Whatever you say, Chief."

Turner rolled his eyes. "You keep calling me that, Owen, but I doubt people want someone like me in that office."

The detectives, accompanied by Lieutenant Fugaze, walked into the room and Dr. Martin Whitly went over his attorney's head and confessed. The DA took over legal matters. The rest was history, and the whole country would know his name, his genius, his legacy.

Salvy gleefully broke the news to Martin Whitly. After all, Salvy had a debt to repay.

"Detective Arroyo called you down to the station earlier for business, Dr. Whitly. I'm pleased to inform you that your son Malcolm is alive and we have safely recovered him. He is with your family now."

Once he shut the door to a frenzied Martin getting body slammed and hard bent onto a cold table, Salvy skipped off to take his own family out for a lovely dinner and to savor his weekly cheat meal, per the Surgeon's recommendations for heart healthy living.

* * *

Jessica made one phone call after another to her business manager, the head of her staff who managed the domestic helpers, and a hotel closest to Gil's precinct. Gil called Trinity Prep to explain the situation to admin and coordinate protection of privacy for the school.

Police escorted Malcolm to the hotel where they would stay indefinitely once the news cameras camped out. The family driver transported Gil and Jessica to Trinity Prep. Gil rode shot gun while Jessica sat in the backseat. Ainsley whined about being pulled from debate practice while Douglas kicked the back of Gil's chair until Jessica snapped and tearfully held her children.

The children were taken to the hotel, stripped of their phones and internet access, and restricted to movies only for the TV. Malcolm met his family in his I Heart NY sweats. Gil explained that their father was in trouble and they were in custody for safety. 

Jessica slept for two days, sedated, while NYPD tore apart the townhouse. In the meantime, Ainsley's myspace and FB pages were deleted. Douglas was allowed to keep his Neopets account. Malcolm was grateful for Gil's presence mediating peace between himself and his resentful siblings.

Detective Tarmel had the honor of bringing an old friend to the hotel. 

"We lost the paperwork on your bird. So here's your bird," JT said.

"But she's an illegal. Aww, you guys!!" cried Malcolm, losing his mind over the yellow warbler. Sunshine tickled his lips as she flipped her lady feathers.

"City cops. Whaddya expect? We were sure she was a parakeet," said Gil.

"When your birdie shat all over her paperwork, we took it as a sign." JT shrugged.

"Not a word to Salvy, of course. He's not much for odd birds," Gil warned.

Douglas hovered near their gathering centered around the bird. Malcolm held out the little warbler. "Wanna make friends, Doug?"

"Snakes are cooler," Douglas disdained, lifting his nose.

When Malcolm turned to Ainsley, Douglas quickly added, "She could at least say hello to me."

"I'm sure she was worth the abandonment," cooed Ainsley. She didn't know about their father, not yet.

Malcolm shook his head but extended an introduction to his sister as well. He chose kindness. Ainsley giggled as Sunshine climbed her blond hair like rope and tweeted in her ear, momentarily charmed to offer seeds to the warbler who then perched on Douglas's shirt.

Eventually, Jessica would pull them from school for a year of homeschool with private tutors, Malcolm especially. The children's last names were changed to Milton, except for Malcolm. Malcolm already had made a name for himself, a good one, clear as a mountain stream.

* * *

Every agent involved in Dr. Whitly's arrest did a great job. Nevertheless, Gil was beat from keeping his promises and returning to work afterwards to clean up his desk. When he settled in at his apartment, the place had a different feel to it.

He switched on the TV but muted the sounds of Lieutenant Salvatore Fugaze and Detective Owen Shannon announcing the double arrest of Dr. Martin Whitly and Mr. John Watkins. 

Gil threw out the freezer burnt dinners. He had a pan, some oil, onions. While the food sizzled, he plugged in Jackie's music player.

His face was wet, because, onions. Gil bit his bottom lip, centered his hand over his chest, and swayed his hips in a solo bachata. Hand raised for the partner of his dreams.

_¡Ay yayaya amor!_ His tender lips fit themselves around the song in his heart.

_Eres la rosa que me da calor._

_[You are the rose that gives me warmth]_

He was hopelessly in love as though she hadn't left him. He missed sharing the victories and the good parts of the job, bringing the best of himself home to Jackie. He yearned for her love.

_Eres el sueño de mi soledad._

_[You are the dream of my loneliness]_

_Un letargo de azul._

_[a blue lethargy]_

_Un eclipse de mar._

_[an eclipse of the sea]_

_Pero..._

But. He was ready to love, to wholeheartedly embrace his life as a renewed experience, daring and bright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyricstranslate: Gracias Valeriu Raut for Spanish lyrics to Bachata Rosa by Juan Luis Guerra. Thanks to micrastur for English lyrics.
> 
> Gosh. This beastly writing. I thought I was feeding a smut monster and it turned into a different animal, a soft thing with big bones that sits on my feet when my toes are cold or flops on my chest to protect my heart and catch my tears.
> 
> I'm ready for a soft ending.


	9. Dr. Le Deux's Office, The Village - Spring 2013

CHAPTER NINE

The Office of Dr. Le Deux, Psy.D

The Village

Spring 2013

Gabrielle pondered her decision of jumping track in her career from child psychology to adult oriented counseling. As she was discovering with her caseload, every one of her clients had childish things to unpack. As such, she pulled the chubby panda out of retirement and dusted off her jar of sugar free lollies (if the kiddies didn't know, no harm done).

For example, she had a fun one in her chair, rambling intensively about a children's story he'd contextualized while escaping his traumatic father.

"In the book, our disenchanted protagonist discovers his enemy, rah rah evil wizard, on purpose murdered people to rip his soul in half. The evil wizard then places pieces of his soul inside a curated vessel, thereby creating his Horcrux. As long as the Horcrux survives intact, the wizard will not die."

"Wizarding encyclopedias, or published guides to the Potterverse, state that Horcruxes are items which contain the soul fragments, but as the evil wizard has placed his soul inside his familiar and accidentally planted his soul in our boy, Harry, I prefer the use of the term vessels when referring to Horcruxes."

"Malcolm, we're on the topic of your night terrors," Gabrielle reminded her client.

In the middle of his 20s, Malcolm had an extraordinary background of experiencing privileged childhood as well as self inflicted deprivation for his entire adolescence. Under strange circumstances that exploded into a media frenzy, Malcolm had run away from an abusive father and returned as a young man to corroborate details on his father's serial crimes. 

Ironically, the publication of the final installment of the Potter books in summer 2007 finally quelled the public's morbid interest in all news coverage on The Surgeon and The Junkyard killer.

"Your night terrors," Gabrielle said, defining their conversation.

"Harry had these terrible nightmares which were a symptom of his soul deep connection with the evil wizard. So what if," Malcolm gulped, "my father put a bit of himself in me? And the reason why I, to this day, have these vivid images haunting me, is because he's inside me?"

"I obviously don't believe that my father is immortal, but he's entrenched, and I'll never dig him out. He will carry on after his body dies because I'm alive," concluded Malcolm. He smooshed his chin on top of the stuffed panda which sat on his criss-crossed A|X trousers.

Hard to believe that Malcolm recently walked for his university graduation, having successfully completed his dual majors of nutrition science and psychology. Outfitted in business casual, he had a smart haircut though his chin was scruffed.

"Sorry if I spoiled the story for you," Malcolm apologized belatedly, as if realizing that not everyone followed the book series.

"I haven't read that far," Gabrielle admitted. "I was turned off after Book 2. We're not going into why. I'm simply alleviating your concerns."

"However," Gabrielle continued, "I believe I can help you as my disinterest in the franchise equips me for objectively breaking down your paranoia."

"What can you tell me, Dr. Gabrielle?" Malcolm sat forward, holding onto the panda as though he were bracing for bad news.

"You are incredibly gifted at drawing up lateral connections and unique parallels. It's uncommon for someone analytical to be as equally creative. Usually people skew towards either computations or compositions," Gabrielle shared, happy to see her patient's face noticeably lift.

Then Gabrielle led him to their next discussion. "You're still like other people despite your atypical experiences. All humans, even those who don't read, are wired for story. Like any other Joe Schmoe or Plain Jane, you found a story and you're looking for clues to your own survival within this story. What happened to Harry in the last book? Spoil it for me."

"He died, sort of, to save everyone," Malcolm summarized.

"And then?" prompted Gabrielle.

"The evil wizard died with him, a real death," said Malcolm.

"And then?" Gabrielle nudged.

"Harry came back, had his family, and all was well," said Malcolm, haltingly, his voice flattening on an off note.

"Disregarding the magical aspect, did that ending ring true? Did that sit well with you and your understanding of how reality works, or doesn't work?" asked Gabrielle.

"Getting married and having children doesn't guarantee an optimal outcome. Assuming the role of a family man can facilitate a serial killer to operate under the radar. Fathering children becomes a vector for transmitting sociopath behavior," Malcolm said resignedly.

"Which is beyond the scope of a children's story," said Gabrielle. "As you've debunked the ending, what else can you dismiss as the truth?"

"My father doesn't have special powers. He's a man. When he dies, his life is over," said Malcolm. 

"I don't talk to him. I can't see him. Martin Whitly is dead to me now." Concise. Dutiful. Proper. Each syllable uniformly bricking up the wall around his heart.

"What's behind all that, baby? Take a peek."

"It's too horrible," Malcolm cringed. "My real feelings just-- no, no, I can't."

"Go on, now."

"I-- I can't talk to or visit my father because I love him...?"

Malcolm felt sick from the fear that twisted his gut, squeezed his chest, and hoisted his heart up his throat. His heart came out and it clamored to speak or else the fear would take his life.

"If my daddy hugged me and kissed me and loved me back, I-- I would do anything to feel him do that to me. I want to go back and let him love me again. Be his little boy and he could touch me in his special way."

"If it was real. My God, _if it was real,_ it is tainted by what he did to people. I can't accept it. I want his love. And I can't have it. I want daddy and I can't have him. If you met him, he would make you love him, too." He gripped his right hand forcefully, in a way that a person might grab their child to punish, to shame, to break.

Malcolm hiccuped a small laugh, giddy riding the waves of panic that swept through him, sinking into leveled, but muddy thoughts. "He's not into children, for the record."

"We're not on any record, baby boy." Gabrielle was relaxed, pleasant, and attentive.

His hands folded over the back of his bowed head. While he kept a dry eye, the muscles of his body reacted fitfully. The panda's furry ears twitched from Malcolm's shaking.

Gabrielle coached him through his episode, reminding him how to pause his spiraling thoughts, how to breathe through the grief of the relationship he never had with his father's persona, how to affirm himself as a survivor who would endure. Malcolm mirrored her calm. 

"It's a broadly popular series, but... well, what's that saying? Don't trust something if you can't see its brains," Gabrielle said, quoting from one of the Potter books.

"This world that you've taken to heart cannot serve your mature outlook. The details are fictitious but your body registers your fear as tangible danger which crosses from the mental to the physiological. I think next session, we can discuss the magic connection between boy wizard and Voldemort," said Gabrielle, raising her brow.

"Oh my God. I'm a grown up using fiction as self-help." Malcolm put the panda away from himself.

Gabrielle laughed. "You've outgrown a children's story book. We'll catch you up yet, baby."

He shook her hand with gusto, expressing his relieved gratitude.

"Goodbye Malcolm. Til next time," Gabrielle said.

Malcolm continued standing, shuffling his leather shoes, puppy dog eyes on the lollipops but he was grown and candy was not the solution.

Gabrielle unlidded the jar and offered him the candy. "If you don't take one, then I _know_ something's up."

Malcolm beamed when she gently pinched his face. He practically skipped from her counseling area, a circle outlined in his cheek with a paper stick protruding from his lips.

Gabrielle put her head in her hands, quieting her mind as she prepped for her next appointment. Her work with children was not over.

* * *

Manhattan

Summer 2013

When Malcolm mentioned reserving a table for several of his university classmates to celebrate the end of his graduate studies, Jessica hijacked his vague notions and escalated them to renting out a live DJ'd party yacht and inviting everyone in his graduating class.

"Mother, that's not reasonable or indicative of my actual social standing with my classmates," Malcolm protested. "I found a genuine Cuban restaurant with large round tables. It comes highly recommended."

"Reasonable? Genuine? Not our brand," scoffed Jessica. She doubled down on her luxe suggestions. "Perhaps we can hire a private charter and fly out two or three of your friends out to the Maldives. For a lost weekend."

"Mom, the Maldives was our thing," objected Ainsley. "For after my graduation and before I start my career. Girls only weekend, hello?"

Douglas, 14, also weighed in. "Will I be stuck with Ains or would there be other girls and boys there?"

"None your age, my darling," Jessica answered. 

"I don't wanna go," said Douglas.

"Just throw a party for our dear brother's graduating class. Free booze, food to soak it up, a live DJ. Parking vouchers," Ainsley suggested. "The more people who remember his party, the more likely someone might help him get a job in his field or a promotion later."

"Muh-ommm," whined Ainsley.

"Then it'll be you and me and the tropical fish. I will drink you under the hut, Ainsley," said Jessica.

"We'll see, Mom," said Ainsley, a sister of Delta Gamma sorority.

Ainsley resented Malcolm for abandoning their family and putting a severe crimp in many of her normal childhood freedoms. Douglas also resented Malcolm for monopolizing the attention of his remaining parent, the one who was not incarcerated for life.

While neither sibling had Malcolm's interests in mind, their input shut down Jessica's outrageous interference. Her plans for Malcolm scaled back from international waters. Instead, Jessica hired an event planner who set up a sleek and urban party in a downtown hotel for Malcolm and every student who completed their undergrad and postgrad nutrition studies.

It was a whole day affair; in the late afternoon, kids showed up and took advantage of pool hours, light snacks, and complimentary beverages. Others waited until night time for the catering and rooftop bar. 

His low key university friends hung out with him for poolside lounging, but peaced out before the wilder festivities began. As the named host on the party invites, Malcolm could not ditch with them.

Hence, Malcolm was overdressed for the evening while a good percentage of his campus at Steinhardt were lounging and mingling in swim wear or club outfits. He was in a tailor made black suit that shimmered blue or purple like gasoline when he tucked his hair behind his ear. His stylist cut it short to comb back, but left him longer layers which skimmed his ears, adding movement and texture.

Whether or not he preferred it, tonight was all about Malcolm. Malcolm debated taking a Valium as he loosened his tie.

"Bright! Why you hiding?" he heard, before receiving a strong clap to the back. 

"Congratulations!" exclaimed Tally as JT surprised the heck out of Malcolm.

"I should say the same. When can I expect my save the date?" Malcolm asked.

"Did you--" Tally turned to JT.

"I didn't--" JT said defensively.

"You both told me. No ring, but you're wearing similar outfits. Different styles but you're color matched. Nissan key on Tally's wristlet wallet and Nissan key hanging out of JT's pants pocket. You're sharing a car, no hot rod. Shared finances. JT has house keys, Tally has only a car key. You're live ins."

"How exactly did you figure I popped the question?" asked JT.

"Tally picked the car. You're marrying her," Malcolm pointed out.

"Dang, Holmes. We're still working out a date," said JT.

"Sorry guys. I'm literally the worst. I'll get you a round," Malcolm offered. "I'm so uninvited to your wedding, huh?"

"It's your party, man. We appreciate you having us come out. Are those hors d'ouevres hot?" asked JT.

"Now you're off your exam schedule, you have no excuse not to come out with us more often," Tally said. "When's the last time you danced til last call?"

"Thanks Tally. I am really glad you came." Malcolm decided not to take the Valium. He ditched the tie and accompanied his friends while they ate from hot food stations with small plates. As his friends became more enamored with one another, and Tally liquored up, Malcolm read their body cues and wished them a good night.

He was inexplicably happy, sipping his seltzer water loaded with crushed berries, the hubbub of people letting loose, the city lights outshining the starry sky.

Malcolm wasn't overly startled when someone patted his collar, and he heard a familiar laugh that warmed his face.

"Hi Gil," Malcolm said. "Glad you made it."

"Wouldn't miss it, kid. Happy for you. I would've found you sooner if you weren't hiding in the potted plants."

"The ambiance here is _great_ ," said Malcolm.

"You turned off your phone," said Gil.

"It's muted. Mother would call up a man hunt if she couldn't check her phone for my location. Would ruin the ambiance."

That was their compromise. Malcolm was allowed to be as reserved as he wanted but Jessica had his coordinates at all times. His phone, his wallet, and his key ring were all chipped. Same rules applied to Douglas and Ainsley, who was home for the summer from UCLA. 

Malcolm suspected that when Ainsley was in Cali, she had a tech friend who helped her fool the tracking software to win back her privacy. Knowing that his rash actions as a child had doomed them to surveillance and monitoring for the rest of Jessica's days, he didn't blame his siblings for rebuffing him when their mother couldn't see.

Malcolm had studied at NYU to stay local and rebuild his familial ties. He was allowed to dorm for freshman year in his own room, sharing a suite with other males, on a meal plan. In subsequent years, Malcolm agreed to live with family and commute.

Jessica had sold the townhouse and moved the family to an 8 bedroom house, downsizing to 10,200 square feet. She remained married and kept Whitly's name though she never stepped so much as a peep-toe bootie inside Claremont Psychiatric Hospital to visit her illustrious husband. 

Gil's fingers skimmed his ear. "Houston to Bright. Earth to Bright. Where's your head, kiddo? You look like a kicked puppy."

"Last month was the 5th anniversary of Dr. Whitly and John Watkins's court ruling. John wasn't charged with half of his junkyard kills. As for Dr. Whitly, many people credit him with over twenty murders. Yet in reality, Dr. Whitly was convicted for the two murders to which he confessed. Every year, Dr. Whitly name drops a victim which puts the spotlight on the victim's families."

"I haven't spoken with or visited my father, but it'll never be over for me, my family, and one innocent life after another. It's hitting me now that I'm not cramming for school. Might sneak in a Master's for psychology, in a part time format."

"Why do the dietitian gig when psychology's more of your bag?" Gil asked.

"Mother asked me to focus on either business or the sciences. She doesn't support my interest in mental health," said Malcolm.

"Jessica wants you to have mental health, not just whack it with a measuring stick," said Gil. "If you weren't on a leash, kid, you'd get way into criminality and go crazy."

"How did you deduce that, detective?" Malcolm feigned with an overdone air of ignorance.

"You've read every suspense book on my shelf, and since then you buy me a new crime novel every Christmas," said Gil. 

"Not to mention the cards you write me read along the lines of 'Here Gil, read this and trash what you have.'" 

Gil raised his brows at Bright's barely contained embarrassment. The younger man's lips widened, briefly showing his right dimple, but not his teeth.

"Your selection is criminal," Bright retorted, ducking his face.

Another laugh rippled out of Gil, a soft haven from noisy obligations. The brights of Malcolm's eyes rose like paired moons from still waters, his lashes like the silhouette of wild pines.

"Be happy with what you have, kid. You're rushing into the next thing before you finished your victory lap. Slow down. Enjoy your ambiance," said Gil, having the last laugh. He hooked an elbow around Bright's sleeve and nicely walked him to the people, the girls, circled up in terrifying closeness.

Malcolm winced from addressing his peers in personal range, where he detected body glitter and hair spray. Yet Gil's firm body, in a slouchy jacket and a gray silk shirt, pressed into him, and he wanted to lean into that the whole night.

Malcolm watched the color lights shine on Gil's shirt, smiling every time Gil touched his own hair or his beard, the hairs whitened beneath his lower lip. At one point, Gil had his phone out to pull up recent vacation pictures. Malcolm held Gil's brandy and took a sip himself.

It wasn't to his taste, but Malcolm figured that brandy helped slow down the time and deepen certain senses. The more glasses Gil put away, the more often his forefinger and thumb settled on Malcolm's collar. While Gil talked about travel to the younger crowd, he didn't look at Malcolm but his palm would run along Malcolm's sleeve or his fingers would tap along Malcolm's scalp.

After he had a few cocktails, Malcolm excused himself to go to the bathroom. He washed his hands and touched the water to his hot neck, ran amazingly cool water through his hair. Stood over the sink feeling the drops cool his skin and knew he was done for the night. His floaty drifty musings, his pounding chest, and his deer legs apparently agreed.

He caught himself on a round standing table on the rooftop deck area, knocked over a plastic cup full of ice. Malcolm cocked his head and gave some real thought to tonguing the ice from the tabletop into his mouth and grinding it into snowflakes for his tonsils.

Malcolm grabbed an ice cube until it ouched and then put his chilled fingers on the side of his neck. In that fleeting moment of sobering acuity, Malcolm conjectured that perhaps his social disorder prescriptions were interacting with his social lubricants.

Gil totally saw him lose it. "Easy, Bright. Figures you'd be a lightweight. I could pick you up and carry you."

Malcolm's head lulled; he leaned his face into Gil's cool silk shirt. Gil had shed his jacket and had also rolled up his sleeves. The hairs on Gil's warm and brown forearms were softly brushing Malcolm's cheek. Malcolm recognized the fragrance brand but sweet God the scent on Gil bloomed into a rare spice that he wanted all over his skin. 

“Take me home, Gil.”

“Not a problem. I’ll call you a cab and give Jessica the heads up before she has conniptions,” Gil agreed.

Malcolm put his arms around Gil’s neck and put his mouth to Gil’s ear. “I mean, pick me up and take me to your place.”

He was holding Gil tightly; he felt Gil’s hands squeeze a little harder. Malcolm licked at Gil’s cheek, in the soft spot near his ear.

Gil gripped Malcolm’s chin, palm beneath Malcolm’s face, fingers curling along Malcolm’s cheek, the pad of his thumb smeared against Malcolm’s wet mouth. “Bright, no. Uh uh.”

Malcolm tilted his head down and pressed his bottom lip into Gil’s thumb. When Gil didn’t move his hand or recoil, Malcolm suckled a kiss on the tip of it.

“Cute, kid. I don’t think so. We’re sending you in a cab. For your sake, I hope you’re in a blackout,” Gil said. He took Malcolm’s phone and texted Jessica an update.

Gil wouldn’t look at him the whole elevator ride down; Malcolm pouted but wasn’t able to air his grievances with other party goers packing themselves in and taking advantage of the lighting for selfies.

“I’m not drunk. It’s prolly my pills throwing me off,” Malcolm articulated as Gil escorted him to many of the taxis waiting around for business.

“You’re compromised, Bright. I’m not holding you to anything you say. Consider yourself under the influence. You’re not getting lucky tonight,” said Gil.

Malcolm made a noise as the lights clicked on in his head. “You think this is about… fucking? We don’t have to. I want--”

“Bright, get in the damn cab.”

Gil opened the yellow door for him and gave the driver the address to the Whitly residence. 

Malcolm dug in his dress shoes like a puppy fighting an unjust leash. “Hear me out… hear me. Out. I want to see you wake up near you. What’s that like?”

Gil took hold of Malcolm and moved him into the backseat.

Malcolm shuffled closer to the night air, twisting his upper body to lean in Gil’s direction, his fingers curled like paws into the black upholstery. The street lamps washed out the color of Malcolm's eyes. 

“Get some sleep, Bright.” Gil hunched down to sternly make his point. 

A passing car beamed its lilac LED headlights, flashing his eyes blue, revealing what Malcolm felt for Gil. He was blinded, everything shining, when Gil's lips touched his.

Malcolm strained forward, his arms unprepared when he shifted balance. He would have knocked into the curb if not for Gil steadying him. Malcolm nuzzled in, felt the breeze stroking where Gil kissed. His skin tingled as though each hair in Gil’s beard were live wires humming with power. Inside of Gil’s strength, his presence, Malcolm opened to his own weakness, willing if his surrender meant that Gil would take everything.

“Sleep tight,” Gil said, shutting the taxi door.

Malcolm tasted brandy, slowed the moment, alive in that dream. When he stripped off his clothes inside his bedroom, Gil’s essence covered him. Malcolm sniffed at his arms and inhaled deeply with his hair in his face but he couldn’t tell where that rare spice from Gil's skin had rubbed off on him. If Gil’s scent wasn’t on his clothes, his skin, or his hair, Malcolm yearned to track it all the way back to Gil. For now, he had proof that Gil had gone further than incidental contact. He skipped the shower and clicked on his restraints. 

* * *

The night terrors closed in on him once more. Malcolm was on his knees, dead leaves crunching with his movements, knew he was deep in the woods. He knelt before a large stag. Malcolm wasn’t as knowledgeable as his father, but he knew it was a male with brown hair. Immobilized from a wound that Malcolm couldn’t see, the stag was on its side, its forelegs bound.

“Time to open your hart,” said his father. One strong arm winded across his chest. His old hunting knife, purchased in Jersey, laid flat and slanted across his right palm. The hand of a surgeon slid down his arm, lithe fingers curling into Malcolm’s palm, intimately twined with Malcolm’s fingers, thumb fondling Malcolm’s Venus mount where the knife dug in hard.

Strong lips possessively kissed down his left temple, behind his ear, on the juncture between his neck and his shoulder. Malcolm’s vision wavered from pleasure as he was claimed with each invasive touch. Then he was rolled onto his back, lying flush against cool and soft moss, as bare as a wild hart. 

Gil straddled him, brandishing a knife rough cut entirely from cherry wood. Gil’s knuckles snagged Malcolm's long brown hair as Gil edged the knife down the median plane of Malcolm’s supine body, parting his flesh. Gil pressed the swell of his hilt to Malcolm's lips, working his fingers as he teased open Malcolm's center. 

Malcolm's jaw clenched, grinding on plump wood cherry sweet each time he swallowed. Gil's stark eyes beheld Malcolm whose insides were copiously filled with milk, splattering across his belly, running hot and fluid between his thighs. Gil plucked out Malcolm’s heart, went in for a taste, sinking lush and deep, moaning as though he never had such fruit.

* * *

Malcolm jerked awake, coughing from thirst, legs cramped in his dehydrated state, his gums sore without the mouth guard. As he showered, Malcolm vaguely remembered drinking down something heated and thick, coating his tongue. 

His knuckles trembled along his lips, the slightest pressure summoning up perfect recall of his party, when he listened to Gil's recorded message on his phone. Malcolm played the message on loudspeaker as he massaged his legs.

" _Bright_ ," Gil spoke, sounding tired and like he was alone. " _I need to see you. When you're ready._ "

Shivers ran up Malcolm's spine from Gil's breath inside his bedroom like a wind in the door.

" _We can talk over dinner if you want. Any chance you'd cook it?_ " 

The warmth in Gil's voice made Malcolm ache from his throat as he sat on his bed, freshly bathed. Water fragrant with roses and vanilla trickled from his hair down his nape, gently like a lover's touch. 

" _I'm here, Bright._ "

His reflection in the mirror appeared no differently despite their kiss. Gil's love for him didn’t leave a mark, but Malcolm desperately wanted it to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wired For Story is a Tedtalk by Lisa Cron.
> 
> Hart is a term for adult male deer.


	10. After Midnight

Brooklyn

2013

At 49 years old, a big ol’ 49er, Gil enjoyed a spectacularly good run at life. As a police corporal, he had interviewed for the vacant position of Sergeant’s office and earned the civil appointment, taking on supervisory, training, and disciplinary review duties for his detective squads. Gil’s dating life picked up despite his increased duties, owing to how many more staff received his guidance and had a cute friend who was on the market. 

He threw out Jackie’s dusty mp3 player and migrated her music library to an iPod docking station with speakers. After ripping out the wallpaper and splashing colors onto the walls, Gil upgraded his furniture set as well. He recycled the worst of his crime novels and put Jackie’s recipes and the newer titles which Bright gave him every Christmas at eye level on his pine shelf which he sanded, stained, and varnished.

Throwing out the bed frame that he and Jackie had bought and assembled together had not gone smoothly. He could still clearly see and remember which pieces Jackie had put together with shower breaks when she couldn’t tolerate sweat. Eventually the painted white wood frame lay in pieces and a family member trucked away the old mattress and furniture. The apartment hadn’t been this empty since the first night they had slept together with their top mattress lying flat on top of the floor, using a box full of Gil’s novels as a nightstand to hold their alarm clocks and water glasses, the smell of their take-out and booze, and the alien noises of their new neighborhood.

The apartment looked great when Gil brought a new friend into his dark bed frame, the headboard padded and upholstered in faux brown leather, and relatively noiseless under duress. His new friend, Delores, had children. He rather liked being an uncle. He didn’t mind waking up and having breakfast with the kids when Delores was beat from the job. He miscalculated bringing Delores and the kids to Jersey for a picnic event with the rest of the Arroyo family. Every one of his girlfriend’s kids called him Uncle Pez afterwards.

He still very much loved them when they threw away Jackie’s binder. The younger one had used the open binder for a craft glue station and the older one who wasn’t watching simply wrapped the binder in a plastic grocery bag and disposed of the evidence. It happened on Sunday, the last day of Delores and the kids visiting. Gil didn’t notice until Tuesday early evening when he prepped his mid-week dinner from the recipes and then he called Delores. Residential trash pick up was 8 am on Wednesdays. Gil suited up for dumpster diving, snapping his pink dish washing gloves all the way up his elbow and capping off with a showering cap.

He had to call it quits at sundown and freeze the ingredients after screaming into his hands underneath boiling shower water. 

<<Tally can you send me your family recipes when you get the chance. I lost Jackies. All of it. :( >>

Bright, the only other person who might have remembered a couple recipes, was totally swamped with his Master’s thesis project. Gil started to text him, then deleted the draft. It was a long shot and the kid had a lot on his plate before factoring in his school workload.

Gil went to sleep with the pillow over his head, the smell of disinfectants and the hum of medical equipment unrelenting, broken only by the rumbling gears of the waste management truck grinding up what remained of Jackie. Gil accepted another loss, set aside his personal feelings, and then suited up for the job. Delores called him while he was at work to check up on him. She and the kids would visit later that night and Gil accepted the lively company they offered; he welcomed noise and touch.

In the meantime, he was supervising a recently promoted Detective Dani Powell who transferred from narcotics to homicide. 

“How’s your first case going?” Gil checked in. Powell and her assigned partner JT Tarmel were following up with suspicions of a health care employee purposefully overdosing their patients.

“It’s going, Sergeant. I’m reading through patient charts and there’s a few names that fit the bill for an angel of mercy,” Detective Powell reported. Though she was fit and mixed, with soft, thick curls and rounded, open eyes, she sat splayed like a guy in her boot cut black jeans and her cropped leather jacket zipped up. Clothes and makeup in neutral colors, she was the type to show nothing about herself but her badge.

She bowed her head when Gil asked her about an extremely private incident that marked the end of her career in narcotics. 

“My issues have no bearing here, sir. Most of the victims are elderly or disabled adults with families who aren’t that involved. I haven’t had any issues following up with the families about the sort of care the nursing home patients got before they died from dosage errors. With due respect, Sergeant, I’m nowhere near the morphine, if that’s your concern.”

“Tarmel’s a good partner. I want you to know that you’ve got a great start. You can lean on him for his experience,” Gil said pointedly while Powell swirled her tongue inside her mouth, keeping her lips shut, her hackles raised all the way up to her ears.

He wasn’t at all surprised when her butt was in his chair again from a workplace incident. He could tell she had a temper just by her scrunched nose and the ding in her shoulder that meant she didn’t trust anyone not even her own partner.

“JT thinks he’s funny but his comments are effin annoying, sir. I just needed a moment and I didn’t know he was right behind me. I reacted cuz he too close. I said sorry to him, he said alright. I’m sorry that a couple people saw that and reported me.”

“He’s not trying to be fresh, Dani. JT’s in a relationship. As his Sergeant, it’s not my business. As the family member of the woman that he’s in a relationship with, I would be very proactive about any inappropriate behavior on JT’s end if you tell me otherwise.”

Dani’s mouth pinched and she tucked her lips in, but the apples of her cheeks bunched up as she smiled. Gil chuckled.

“He’s trying get you to talk about yourself a little. The day gets long when you’re in a car with no music playing with your ears out and no one talking,” Gil said pointedly, from experience. Dani might not trust people, but she could trust experience.

“I don’t whine on the job, Sergeant. In case you couldn’t tell, I don’t have much of a personal life,” Dani acknowledged. “Why would Tarmel want to hear that stuff when he’s got it good?”

“Small talk goes a long way. If you’re dealing with personal life crises, our bennies include access to certified counselors. Friendly reminder, Dani.”

“Fine. If Tarmel gives me a chance, I’ll go along with the chit chat. I’m not laughing at his sexist jokes, Gil,” Dani promised.

Gil looked after her wistfully once he dismissed her. Maybe he was projecting his memories of Jackie on to his subordinate, but Bronx girls required special handling. Tongue in cheek, Gil made sure that he was present when Dani, hater of inappropriate comments, met Dr. Edrisa, purveyor of deviant topics. What made Gil great at his job was his big picture perspective, but occasionally he had an eye for the little things in life, such as every face that Dani pulled when Edrisa rhapsodized over nude corpses. It was nice to see Dani and JT on the same page, though people had to die for Gil to see that happen.

What made Gil suck at his life was his blind spot for the little things. After he turned fifty, Gil took Delores to Puerto Rico for a long weekend when the children were with their dad. He wanted them both to soak in tropical water while the leaves piled up in Central Park. He should have seen it coming but Delores reconciled with her ex and the children wanted their dad. Well, at least she took great pictures of his single ass with the gorgeous Spanish colonial houses and dramatic stone works as backdrop.

Several months later, Gil suited up, this time for Bright’s graduation party. Gil expected to see young 20s who looked like teenagers, but there were quite a few women in their late thirties to forties worth following up with. Post-grad studies were invited to the party, after all. Bright wasn’t responding to his text. Finding the man of the hour would’ve been tricky if Gil didn’t know him.

Gil spotted a glimmer between tall greenery fluttering from the summer breeze in large glazed vases. He saw the boy, noticed the eyes. Bright was looking down Manhattan, his dress shoe perched on the rooftop ledge, like he was prepared to take flight into the horizon. He stood on both feet when he reached for his glass of bubbly drink. The more that he stilled, the more cheerful Bright seemed, by himself, in his own company. Though he was a small build, Bright had packed on more muscle and his perpetually sleepless face filled in some. He’d been far too skinny when Gil met him and his height was stunted by his malnourished adolescence.

Partly because he wanted to see what Bright would do and partly because Bright’s hair looked shiny and soft, Gil patted him on the neck from behind. When Bright turned to him, he had such a guilty expression like he was caught hiding that Gil laughed. He dragged Bright out of his corner.

“Be my wingman, tonight,” Gil urged. He shook Bright by the shoulders, teasing. ”You like birds, right? There go some now.”

Bright agreed with some nudging and they strode arm in arm. Despite Gil’s experience, he grabbed a drink to relax before the two of them engaged with the fairer sex. They approach a group of six, white, Latin, and a token Asian. The older white and Latin women talked more to Bright while the younger white chicks eyed up Gil in his silk shirt. 

Gil felt how tensely Bright stood despite his friendly smile. He handed his drink to Bright and discreetly rubbed along the back of his glimmering suit, reminding Bright to ease up. Bright talked more with a cocktail or two, though he talked about job searching.

“Are any of you ladies going to enjoy your summer on the beach or going straight to work Monday morning?” Gil asked. He had artfully swiped through pictures of himself shirtless with a good tan but also flexed photos of himself sight seeing a historical area in a tank top that showed his biceps. The art was minimizing the flexing to 20 seconds, showing just enough to indicate adventure and culture but also putting his phone away and inviting someone else to share their idea of fun.

Bright excused himself to go to the bathroom, looking a bit flushed. Gil ran his hand along Bright’s sleeve, discreetly doing the resistance test to gauge how toasted Bright was. He seemed okay to walk. Gil let him go, but not without lightly squeezing the back of Bright’s neck and timing his reaction. 

“So how did you two meet? Seems like you’ve known each other for a long time,” said one of the girls. Her name mighta been Shawn.

“Yeah, how old are you?” another girl chimed in, Mackenzie.

“I’m five oh,” said Gil. “I’m getting along in the years.”

“Oh really? Malcolm can’t be more than thirty, twenty five, tops. How do you make it work?”

Gil felt a little put on the spot, but he went with the subject change. “Well, age is really a number. He’s young but he’s had tougher experiences than me and I’ve been in law enforcement for twenty plus years? He’s really great to have around when you’re going through it. And I love his family, never a dull moment.”

“Can you cook or does he cook?” 

“We both do…?” Gil laughed. “You can’t be Puerto Rican and not manage one pot of beans. Everyone who eats should cook, honestly.”

“What does his family think of you though? It doesn’t get weird?”

“Oh, it’s weird. His father definitely hates my guts but his mother and I are pretty close. We were friends for years before I had the chance to know Malcolm. Kid was like, 11, when I first saw him. But he was a kid. I would say that Malcolm and I hit off when he spent Christmas with me and he turned 19.”

And Bright had cooked one of the most memorable dinners that Gil would ever have.

“Would any of you ladies be interested in going out for drinks or dancing?” Gil asked.

“I’d love to do brunch with you guys! Maybe not dancing, I’d feel like such a third wheel,” said one of the girls.

Gil finally cottoned on. "We're not--"

“There goes your boy. You better go get him before someone else tries it,” said a woman closer to Gil’s age.

Gil didn’t have time to straighten out the details of his and Bright’s friendship. He looked over his shoulder and sure enough, Bright was leaning his pits into a drinks table and swinging his arm. When Gil supported Bright’s head, the ladies waved them goodnight. Then Bright made a pass at him and licked his face. He smelled like drinks but Gil’s hands around his torso confirmed that Bright had indeed filled out.

Gil immediately rejected the possibility with a hard no. The kid looked earnestly miserable as Gil stoically kicked him to the cab. The shadows deepened on his face as Bright looked to Gil, withering into fatigue and hunger like he was homeless all over again. Gil bent down to soften the blow. He meant to say something to cheer up Bright but instead he told Bright to sleep. 

Those puppy dog eyes filled his vision, overflowing like many waters. Gil swiped at the tear that rolled down Bright’s cheek, glowing in a flash of headlights. From up close, Gil didn’t see that Bright was a man, that he was white, that he was different. Gil saw beauty and pain. He leaned inward, tasted Malcolm’s heart, felt its sweetness in his core and damn if he didn’t want to cry himself. Malcolm’s heart waiting right there for the taking, if he were braver. Pounding so hard that Gil could feel each beat pulsing inside his own emptiness.

He didn’t remember what he said before shutting the yellow door. Gil could feel those eyes on him through the glass. He wasn’t drunk and had no excuse for what he did. As a precaution against DUI, Gil stood with the potted plants outside the downtown hotel for about an hour before he slumped into his black Mustang. For all the money that the Whitlys sank into the party, he walked away with zero phone numbers and a swiftly tilting friendship. Inside his living room, Gil exhaled when he read Jessica’s text.

<<M wenmt 2 befd ty G>> Jessica texted, which meant that Malcolm was secured in the Whitly house.

Gil’s thumb skimmed over Bright’s name and his touch screen read the motion as a command to initiate call. Gil cursed and his screen failed to register his fingertip stabbing at the red button for hang up. He heard Bright’s recorded voice mail greeting.

Gil cussed the air blue until he heard the beep. He couldn’t just say nothing so he invited Bright out for dinner as he lied down on his couch.

* * *

"One drink limit," said Gil, laying down the law for their next meeting. "We're in enough trouble as it is."

Gil was relieved, offloaded his stress, when Bright laughed over their phone call. Just hearing Bright made his day better.

"No judgment inhibitors," agreed Bright. "I would rather go out Friday night and sit somewhere fun before we Talk, with a capitalized T."

"I know a tavern with live music. They start at 10 earliest with music artists. Think you can stay out? Your mother won't call in the SWAT if you live a little?"

"I'll tell the boss lady, don't worry. If she needs to know where I am, it's on her phone. I'll ask Adolpho to pick me up when I'm done facing the music, in a manner of speaking. He's very good about it with advance notice."

"You want to grab a bite before?" offered Gil.

"I'd be too nervous, Gil. But thanks. Maybe when things aren't weird, we can."

"Whatever you're comfortable with, kid. It'll be alright. We'll work it out," said Gil.

"If it were anyone else Gil, I wouldn't believe it. Thank you," said Malcolm gratefully.

They met on Bleecker and paid cover for a live band who covered Motown and original grassroots. Malcolm had an aversion to noise but listening in for accomplished instrumentalists and mouthing lyrics with soul singers drew him out. Gil watched him perch forward in his chair.

Gil had one whiskey with plenty of soda. Malcolm had juice and seltzer. Not long after 11, Malcolm was ready to talk about his graduation party. They took a breezy walk to a park nearby that was well lit and heavily trafficked by couples and groups enjoying the summer. They shared a bench on the exterior of the park facing 6th Avenue, a man sized gap between the two of them.

"I wouldn't have acted like that normally, but Gil," Malcolm sighed, "I'm glad you kissed me. I don't regret it. If inspiration strikes, I won't stop you." 

The back of his knuckles skimmed his lips as Malcolm aimed a mischievous look at Gil.

"Thought you liked birds, Bright."

"I like 'em," Bright confirmed. "But I... you're different. I don't know."

"Have you even had a boyfriend?" asked Gil.

"No way. I didn't want to deal with complications at university. I kind of put it off. I'm already in therapy and medicated for every reason you can throw a book at."

Bright batted his manic eyes. "Can you kiss me again."

"No, Bright. We can't," Gil answered soberly.

"Because it's gay? We're in NY, no one cares." Malcolm leaned back into the bench, licking his lips when Gil's eyes faltered on the shadow beneath his toned pecs, his spraypaint jeans snug against a slat.

"It's trendy to paint no H8 on your face and post a pic. But sweetheart, you don't know what it was like for queers way back when."

"What do you think I saw on patrol? What kinda calls do you think came in when I wore my blues? Men raped. Women beat near to death and to death. Before the antivirals, back when people still checked the obituaries in the pages, you know how many poor souls I knew from doing my job? How many blocks of the gayborhood offed themselves because AIDS? That is too gay for me, Bright." 

Gil barked a laugh. "Who would pick that life, if it were a choice."

Malcolm nodded his head. "You're right. I'm sorry. That wasn't fair or well thought out."

"You think you're the first young thing to go for a man twice his age?' Gil asked smartly.

"No, definitely not. May/December, not a new thing." Malcolm was pinking up in his cheeks.

"What kind of life do you think they have at the end of the rainbow? Bright," Gil retorted. 

He hated himself for being the one to serve his friend a dose of reality, but Gil wasn't above leveraging pain, if it meant someone's life and sanity.

"They get a lifetime together, Gil. I'd rather have 10 years with the man I love than 50 golden years with someone I don't."

"Let's hear you say that when ten years come due," challenged Gil. 

"I care about you so much that I never want you to walk a mile in my funeral shoes. I never want to doom you to the hell I'm in. When you can't start from scratch because you had it all."

Suiting up to marry his bride, and then suiting up to carry his bride one final time.

"Get your shit straight. Find you a partner who can do the long walk with you. Make your family, to fill the years ahead. I want that for you more than I want to screw you, you fruit loop."

"So it's a no," Malcolm intoned.

"It's a no, Bright. For my conscience. For my peace of mind when I die an old man!"

"I don't want to miss you, Gil," he said, jaw quivering.

"I'm here, Bright. Can that be good enough. If I'm the only man in your life who doesn't screw you?!" Gil demanded.

His impassioned tone gentled. "When I go, my spirit will be where Jackie is. We both accepted the salvation of Jesus Christ. What would you have then, sweetheart?"

There wasn't anything left to say, nothing that Gil would take back.

"It's a no, Bright," Gil said, knowing he was right, and taking no triumph from it.

"I know, Gil. You're right. You're so right. I'm not asking you to mess up your life for me. I'm not worth it."

"Bright. The point of me saying no is that you have a better life than what you'd have with me. I love you. I love your family, too. We can't do this to them."

"Yeah." Malcolm stood up from the bench and, holding himself, walked quickly to the sidewalk, stepping around the narrow grass stretches where people walked their dogs.

Gil went after him and tugged at his elbow before Bright did something stupid like run into traffic.

"Is there anything I can do for you to make it easier?" Gil asked.

"Say yes," Malcolm whispered. "For 60 minutes, can it be a yes. Can we spend 60 minutes as though we can be in love?"

"Are you saying that we get a room?" Gil asked, in a joking tone. 

Bright saw he didn't mean it. He smiled because he could see the humor in it.

"Maybe," Bright hedged. He rotated his upper body, hugging himself like a schoolgirl carrying textbooks. "You have to say yes for 60 minutes first to talk me into it."

"What time is it?"

Bright pointed at a church tower bearing a large clock. "Almost midnight. You wanna fall in love at midnight? It appeals to my compulsive nature."

"Would it help you, Bright?" Gil asked dubiously.

"Yes, it would. I can move on if I could come back to my time with you, when I'm in my lows, when it's bad on bad with more bad." Malcolm chuckled. "Sound crazy to you?"

"We don't leave this park. We're not hooking up. We're not doing that," Gil said.

"No, Gil. That's not what this is about. I just want..." Malcolm stumbled for inoffensive terms. "I just want you. Hold me?"

"I can do that for you," Gil said. He didn't see any sin in it and this wasn't the craziest idea that Bright ever had. "Stroke of midnight, it is."

Gil didn't know what happened. He was on Bright as soon as the hour struck in an acceptable time. As though it were his idea to make Bright's dreams come true, Gil wrapped himself around Bright. He backed Bright into a stone column supporting a huge, incandescent iron wrought lantern. His hand solidly cuffing Bright's neck as though Bright belonged to him. As though Gil owned him. Guarding, cherishing, embracing what belonged to him because the minutes were burning up like midnight oil in such heated moments.

"Gil, slow down. I wanna talk. Please," Bright pleaded.

"I'll do whatever you want, Bright," Gil put his hands behind his head and breathed, not that he was tired or winded. He needed his hands off of Bright if they were going to talk.

"How do we tell our families?" Bright asked. His back remained on the column, weak from Gil's touch, without Gil's arms.

"What do you mean, kid?" Gil eyed him, reading his intent.

"I mean, we're doing this, right? How would we tell our families that we're with each other?" Bright was embarrassed, but he wanted it bad that he pushed out the words.

"I'd tell your mother right to her face," Gil answered. "It would be the right thing to do, no sneaking around."

"And when she throws everything to the wall and says no, what will we do?" Bright countered.

"Wait. You wait for me. Save up money for yourself to move out. We would live together, share everything, work like we're one," said Gil.

"How do we tell your family, Gil? I'm not exactly a prize after Jackie," said Bright.

"I would bring you with me next time we have a picnic or dinner. Let them see what a lucky son of a gun I am," said Gil.

"What would they say Gil," Bright asked, though he had a good idea.

Gil chuckled. "They would say to themselves, 'Miró! Look what Pez is fucking.' Learn Spanish if you really want to know. They'll be nice to your face. They will push food on you and invite you to church."

"Would I be able to sit with you?" Bright asked, shocking the hell out of him.

It hadn't occurred to Gil that Bright would say yes to Sunday morning services. "Of... of course. I would want you near me. It's a good chance for you to meet the whole neighborhood."

"Then take me to church with you if you're not ashamed of me. If you're okay with everyone seeing us. I'll go where you go."

"More than okay. Christ. I want you in worship with me. I want to share my holy place with you. I want to be with you in sight of my own God and my people."

Gil felt Bright's right hand shaking inside of his. At some point, they had joined hands, palm to palm, their lifelines entwined, pulsing in tandem.

"Be prepared for dad jokes in the sermon," Gil said, to lighten the mood.

"I think I can hack it," Bright said. His wry smile deepened to tender happiness, fleeting as the time.

"I love you. I've been in love with you for so long I can't remember a time that I didn't feel this way. I'm happy that we're doing this," Bright said.

"When. When did you know that you loved me? Why do you love me." Gil wouldn't get another chance to ask.

"I... well, you said it first! I love you because you loved me first. You had my heart then but I didn't know it. I would've run if I had," Bright admitted ruefully.

"When? When did you know, sweetheart? Tell me. I have to know when it started." Gil needed to know if he could have stopped it.

"Remember when I let you have L'il Miss Sunshine, my lady bird? I almost died from sadness but I said goodbye to her when you asked me to. Because you loved me. I knew I loved you too when I forgot myself and sacrificed the only thing I cared about. I will always love you, Gil Arroyo."

Malcolm had released Sunshine in a state park years ago so she would have her spring.

"Is there anything you wanna know about me, sweetheart? I want to tell it to you," Gil pleaded. He had so much love to offer Bright, by the truckload.

“You know, I get why Tally and JT call me loquito. I am a little lunatic. But why are you Pez?” asked Bright intently as though gleaning the universe.

Gil laughed because out of all the skeletons that Bright could dig up like a puppy, Bright chose this.

“Tally calls me Pez. If JT tried it, we would have problems,” Gil said. "I’ll fight anyone who calls me Pez and they don’t know my mamá." 

Gil continued his explanation.

“Depends on who you ask. My family called me Pez growing up because my favorite uncle bought me a pez candy shooter. It’s like a little orange gun and the pez get loaded like a magazine clip. Always had it on me. I had other candies, but the name stuck. My high school friends, a lot of them Spanish, called me Pez because Pez means fish and my name is Gil.”

“Jackie called you Pez,” said Bright, eyes shining. “She drew fish on some of her recipe cards and _it had nothing to do with seafood_. Oh my God. Mystery solved. Itch scratched. I might sleep tonight.”

"What does Arroyo mean, then?" Bright quickly followed up.

"My family came from a Puerto Rican town called Arroyo," Gil informed him. "We say it as Pueblo Ingrato-Pueblo Grato. The water there was good to drink. We take our name from the town that takes its name from the stream."

"Your name is literally Fish in water, Gil Arroyo," Bright said, his laughter ringing.

"It'll never be as good as yours, Bright. Malcolm. The most beautiful sound on earth." He could say that in true spirit because Jackie lived in heaven.

Gil stepped closer, his whole being humming with the anticipation of stroking Bright’s soft skin and feeling Bright’s warmth.

He rested four fingers on Bright's cheek and leaned in, eyes blue as heaven waiting for him. The pads of his fingers felt how smooth every pretty little inch on Bright's face was. The base of his fingers settled on the stubble already dusting Bright's jawline. His pinky curved into the base of Bright's jaw. His thumb skimmed Bright's lips which were already forming the shape of a kiss.

Malcolm.

Bright's cell phone sounded in a pre-set ring tone. He jerked away from Gil, blinking rapidly, throat convulsively swallowing, covering his face with his hand and then brushing his hair back hastily as he answered the phone call.

“Hello, Adolpho. No, this isn’t a bad time. One o’clock sharp, perfect. Right on time. Thank you, I’m outside ready to go.” Bright made agreeable noises before pulling the phone away from his ear.

“My ride’s here. Thank you, Gil. I'll always have this." Bright clamped his lips and bolted.

A black Audi turned the corner and pulled up in an oncoming direction on their avenue. Gil could make out the silhouette of Bright running from him. Dazed by the headlights, Gil squinted as he stalked Bright who flew into the backseat of the black Audi. Without thinking, Gil put himself in front of the Audi with his hands raised. He didn’t budge until the driver powered down the seat window.

“Excuse me, you’ve got a person of interest in your vehicle. Put on your blinkers, if you please.” Gil flashed his badge.

“Certainly, officer. Hopefully we will be on our way shortly then,” acquiesced the driver, Adolpho.

Gil circled around the front to the rear window where he saw Bright enter. The windows were lightly tinted to block the sun, but he could still make out Bright’s profile, lit by his cell phone.

Gil made a phone call as he put his left hand on the tinted rear window. Through the glass, he could make out Bright putting the phone to his right ear, he could see Bright turn his head.

“Bright, you know how I feel about you, right? It’s real. There’s so much of it,” Gil said, physically incapable of keeping it to himself.

“Yes, sir,” Bright answered. He kept it short due to Adolpho's presence. He moved his phone to his left hand and pressed it to his left ear. He raised his right hand, trembling fair, curling up like a small creature.

Bright’s index finger traced the outline of Gil's hand on his window. Gil watched him. They were so near to one another that Gil almost felt his feather light caress. Gil pressed down more firmly, but the glass.

“A fish and a bird may fall in love but where can they build?” Bright queried. His index finger rested on his lips, a gesture from the shadows which struck Gil as tender but mournful.

Gil opened his mouth to say anything, anything to gain the time. He lost ground, hand slipping as he stepped back, choking on air as though he were fighting off someone holding him underwater.

“Bright,” Gil began. Put down the window. Gil's order didn't make it past his teeth.

“Goodnight, sir. Driver, please—” Bright cut the line but not before his voice broke. Gil could make out the shape of him, but it was too dark and the glass.

The sound of Bright’s tears soaked Gil like rain and the feeling of Bright’s eyes on him hooked him in place, reeling him down to rock bottom. Gil wanted to hold him, pull him into his arms, into his lap, and make it go away. Take away Bright’s sorrows and pour in all the love he had for Bright. He couldn’t speak until alas! the Audi’s tail lights faded like blood into ink. 

“FUCK!” he screamed loud and long into the hour after midnight. 

“Shuddup and go home ya bum!” Gil heard, a spiteful cry accompanied by the rumbling of another stranger dumping their trash and glass bottles breaking and the yowling of a cat. 

Gil flipped off the building where the anonymous shout came from. He pocketed his phone and went home mad. 

After a few hours of kicking around in his nice bed and punching his pillows into flat rectangles, Gil skipped breakfast and found himself in the gym during early bird hours, glaring down a punching bag chained in place. He went to town on it, hitting as though he could break it from its chains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm, you did not quote Ever After! Rude. T_T. So rude.
> 
> You ever look at your one true pairing and think, God I wish this hurt.
> 
> If you google it, Arroyo is named after a stream that became a watering hole for travelers. Google translate says: stream, creek, brook. If you want it literal.


	11. Dance Party - Brooklyn - Midsummer 2013

Dance Party

Brooklyn

Mid Summer 2013

Malcolm attended JT and Tally’s engagement party despite the high probability of him running into Gil. In an honest moment, Malcolm admitted to himself that he RSVP’d because he wanted to see Gil, from a distance if necessary. He spotted a black man who he recognized as Gil's work partner, dancing with a large woman crowned with long turquoise braids and gold metal coils. 

Malcolm felt like he was okay emotionally while he danced the merengue with a couple of Tally’s girlfriends. One of them kissed his cheek and called him baby. She, too, said bye when her date finished his drink and convo with his pals to resume dancing. Then Malcolm joined the ranks of single men standing on the edge of the floor, just watching, sweating in his waistcoat, hoping a girl would look his way.

Then the salsa numbers started, at least three or four in a row, and Malcolm’s field of vision narrowed to Gil and his dance partner who was softly shaped for the pleasures of living. Malcolm checked out the other men of color who were more fit and who wore better clothes, but his pain-seeking and voyeuristic gaze circled back to Gil. Malcolm admired the man who had looked after the Whitly family in the years when he had gone. Gil had taken him into his private residence, made sure he was safe, told him man things, and showed him hospitality beyond prescribed courtesies. 

Since he had returned to city living, Malcolm didn’t know what he wanted at first. To this day, Malcolm remained angry and aggrieved and offended by where he came from, who he came from. In the rarer moments when Malcolm pictured his father’s mugshot broadcast on Northeast news syndicates, he went numb before sorrow, regret, and toxic shame could shackle his spirit and drag Malcolm down to the darkest season of his life, that dead hush when he exhumed his father’s secrets. He once believed that anything he did as a man would never matter because no method existed to resurrect the murdered innocents, no miracle would reclaim the years lost to their families.

Yet Gil had protected him, spoken and demonstrated kindness to Malcolm despite Gil cleaning up his father’s messes, Gil realizing how his father had manipulated NYPD, Gil personally facing the intact corpse of the poor murdered girl in ‘06. Not once did Gil accuse him of playing protege. Nor did Gil put him on trial for his grave and cowardly mistake of running from family, knowing the monster that hunted. Gil treated him like a whole person, deserving of opportunities, worthy of forgiveness for screw ups. Anything that Gil wanted, Malcolm was willing. He would break himself to give back, if that was what it took. 

Malcolm savored his view of Gil finding a little happiness in the company of a sensual dancing woman. In his 50s, Gil could get it with his appealing dark looks, square face, rectangular jaw line framed by a well-kept beard. The few times when occasion warranted hugs and a kiss on the cheek from Gil, Malcolm had memorized the sensation of Gil’s beard lightly pressed to his face. Gil’s beard was surprising in its softness, the touch of Gil’s lips warm and defined by the confirmation that Gil loved him. Those tender gestures came from a place within Gil that Malcolm yearned to inhabit. If only Malcolm could trace the source of each fond look and searching caress that Gil gave to him.

Malcolm grabbed at his trembling hand, remembering when Gil had danced him into a salsa in his late wife’s kitchen. His hand shook harder now, missing the cherished sensation of Gil’s palm clasped warmly. Malcolm would do anything to be held like that, playfully, freely, generously taken in hand by a man who was bigger than him.

One day, Malcolm would look and see that Gil’s nose was a bit short, see the way long space between the base of Gil’s too-short nose and his sometimes colorless upper lip. Gil could fit a second nose under his first nose because he could be that nosy about people’s business. When Gil chewed kale salad at lunch spots with Malcolm, he resembled a good-looking but disappointed llama. Somehow, Malcolm would stop himself from loving Gil all the more for his imbalanced features.

He loved Gil even as he lost sight of the man in the multitude of bodies within the dark hall. He loved Gil when he couldn’t see him. He loved Gil after Gil rejected his love. Gil loved him too, but he knew better than Malcolm what it would cost them. Gil was right. Gil wanted him to pursue happiness more conventionally, investing in relationships that were more likely to sustain Malcolm’s chasm deep emotional needs. Malcolm needed to keep his selfish emotions and his short-sighted outlook and his entitlement from destroying what he considered the most important friendship he would ever have. 

Somehow, Malcolm would learn to feel the appropriate emotions that he would have for a friend. To Gil.

But right now, Malcolm needed privacy. He planned to bail out of JT and Tally’s engagement party before they opened their gifts. He didn’t bother going back for the jacket of his three-piece suit. His relaxed brown hair was sticking to his face, a telltale sign of the tears that he hadn’t felt leaking out, absorbed as he was in Gil’s every movement, as focused as a cracked microscope. 

“Bright! Hey my mans, me and Tally—”

Malcolm sighed deeply to himself. In any other mood, he would have leveraged this moment for bro hugs all around. He had been hoping that he could jump into JT’s arms and JT would swing him around. He had loaded up a prepaid card with $500 as his wedding present, tucked into a card designed with love birds; he had low key obsessed over their wedding registry all day, gotten overwhelmed by available options, and when he called Gil about it, Gil had told him to give them one simple gift before shortening Malcolm’s call.

JT, vibrant and handsome in a solid magenta dress shirt, caught up to Malcolm in the hallway leading out to an empty lobby. Other guests were visible through the glass doors as they smoked cigs and chatted outside.

Malcolm, stiffened up and internally screaming for the exit, failed to compose himself before JT waylaid him.

JT’s flushed grin faded when he saw how Malcolm struggled to get his chin up, couldn’t yank his watery stare from the red carpet rolled out for the party guests, couldn’t hide the way his lips shook.

“I’m, uh, partied out. Think I’ll go catch sportball on TV. Thanks for the fun,” mumbled Malcolm.

JT clapped a hand firmly on his upper arm; Malcolm couldn’t shake him off easily. “Dude, you’re weeping. Don’t blow us off. What’s up?”

Malcolm bit his lips to stop their quivering; the sheer effort he expended to control himself caused droplets to run down the sides of his nose. “I’m alright. No one died.”

“Coming from you, that’s saying something,” JT said. “You shouldn’t be alone. Hang back with me and get your head straight before you head out. You like fruity punch?”

Malcolm looked up, his agitation spilling all over his tense face. His pale coloring hid nothing. He was standing closer to the door. JT faced him, concerned as any true friend would be, and oblivious to Gil stalking up to them, a hard line slashed between his narrowed eyes. Gil’s hands were in his pockets, but Malcolm saw they were fisted. Gil wasn’t armed but his deliberate, agile approach alarmed Malcolm.

“Problem?” Gil wasn’t looking at Bright. His ire and his inquiry were aimed at JT, assessing him as the culprit behind Bright’s damp, reddened face. Depending on how JT responded, Gil was primed to escalate into a fight by stepping into JT’s space and laying hands on him.

“I’m stopping this moron from flying off the handle, Sergeant. Bright’s upset,” said JT, responding to the edge in Gil’s tone. He raised his hands up. “I didn’t do it. Wasn’t me.”

“I’ll take it from here, Tarmel. Congratulations and good night,” Gil said.

JT smartly returned to his party on the double before Gil could charge him with the errand of driving Bright to his family’s house.

Malcolm folded his arms across his waistcoat, shivering from his sweat cooling. He sidestepped Gil’s disapproving expression, bringing himself out of Gil’s immediate reach. He would lose it again if Gil grabbed him by the scruff like a sick puppy Gil felt sorry for. Gil would not return his love and chose separation as their best course of action.

“I'm trying, Gil. I’ll do better. Thanks for your concern; it is noted and appreciated. If you’ll excuse me,” Malcolm said, falling back into civilities.

“Cut the crap, Bright. Stop acting like I dumped you. We’re friends. If your issue is with me, tell me,” Gil urged, appearing hot under his collar the more coldly that Malcolm spoke to him.

“I'm in love. But my feelings aren't as important as the one I'm in love with,” Malcolm said. He peered up at Gil from beneath his arched brow. 

Gil said nothing. Malcolm read Gil’s heavy expression, mistook it for pity. Malcolm sighed and brushed back his hair. “That’s what I thought. You take the high road and I’ll take the low road, AKA I’m going to drink and dance like a jackass. If they play Blurred Lines for the THIRD time tonight, so be it!”

Almost on cue, the doors to the dance floor and tables swung as guests passed through for a breather outside. Both Gil and Malcolm heard the beginning strains of Robin Thicke hollering “Hey hey hey HEY!” in-between horny lyrics. 

Distaste and pinched disapproval chased around Bright’s face. Gil stroked his beard, shoulders shaking as he huffed out a laugh from seeing Bright’s snobby bitch look. 

“It’s not fucking funny. That song is about cheating! As we celebrate upcoming nuptials? Really?” Malcolm touched his forehead and cracked up helplessly. Gil’s laugh was contagious. “Why are your people so tacky.”

Gil chuckled some more and he rubbed his hands up and down Malcolm’s sleeves. “Put your money where your mouth is, Bright. I was on my way to the little boys’ room. You better get back in there, they’re playing your song.”

“I can do that,” Malcolm said, genuinely uplifted by their shared laughs. Out came his dimples as he smiled at his friend. He caught himself on the verge of over thinking and scampered to the bar while Gil went to the bathroom. He heard there was fruity punch.

Gil hastened out of the bathroom, shaking his washed hands, kicking a damp paper towel off of his soles, back to the party where he could find Bright. Their feelings for one another were driving him off the edge of reason. He had come dangerously close to putting his hands on JT! JT at his engagement party! Tally would kill him if he fucked up her groom. To be fair, Gil hadn’t known it was JT. From further away, he had seen Bright shaking off a bigger guy who wouldn’t leave him alone. Once Gil set his eyes on Bright’s tear-stained and crumpled face, everything else was collateral.

He had just seen Bright and he couldn’t get those eyes out of his head, that moment when Bright looked Gil dead in his face, eyes puffy and red, and declared that he loved Gil as though it were the most natural thing in the universe to say. Gil wasn’t mad but he wanted to pull Bright aside, hook him by his collar, and just get Bright talking some more.

Gil’s irritation mounted when Bright wasn’t where he said he’d be. Out of all the gyrating hot bods on the floor, not one of them was Bright getting low to a song that he hated. Gil spotted a short and lean kid bending over, brown hair in his face, hips snapping, backing up into another man. The kid threw back his hair and it wasn’t Bright. Gil realized that he’d been making a bee line when he thought it was. Bright might have left before the song ended, without finishing the song, without saying goodbye to Gil. In which case, Gil changed course to the drinks bar.

Malcolm was licking the fruity punch from his lips, impertinent and bothersome thoughts floating away from him. He stepped more cautiously through the dance floor, felt the liquor slow down time and ramp up his pulse. With the couples pairing up for bachata and crowding out the single dudes, Malcolm caught sight of Gil who was already heading over to him. The lights dimmed, the beats gentled, and Romeo Santos high tenor croon delicately unwound from the speakers, backed by a smooth melodic fade-in. 

Before they could get near to one another, Malcolm had to step around the other dancers circling their own orbits, lost in their own worlds. Folks bumped Gil who simply walked to where he saw Malcolm. Tight black curly hair, loose blond hair, flat ironed styles waved like trees in a hot wind between them. Malcolm kept his gaze up, eyes only for straight set shoulders and an overly stoic tanned face, seeking out Gil like a mountain above a black forest. When Malcolm was closer, no bodies obstructing their paths, meeting imminent, he moved in time with the throbbing beat, swaying for those brown eyes drawing him in. He knew he shouldn’t, Gil said no, but Malcolm’s body danced for Gil. He desired for Gil to see him.

_You know we are not supposed to be doing this, right?_   
_[No estamos supuesto hacer esto]_

_This is a sin_   
_[Esto es un pecado]_

_We're both going to hell_   
_[Vamos pa' el infierno]_

Gil pulled him in, strong fingers rooting on the back of his waistcoat, the pressure of Gil’s thumb on his spine weakening his knees. Malcolm would’ve stopped breathing if Gil didn’t smell good, the spice of Gil’s cologne reviving him, emboldening him to return Gil’s touch, his own hand stroking up Gil’s shirt, skimming his bearded chin, before perching his hand on Gil’s shoulder. Gil felt up his side and stroked down Malcolm’s right sleeve. Their fingers loosely twined, both of them not yet ready to break the moment as the music called to them. Gil fit his thumb between their hands, caressing Malcolm from his wrist to the dip of his palm. Malcolm’s thumb rubbed between Gil’s fingers.

_Así con cautela despacio sólo ámame_   
_[Like that, slowly, just love me]_

Perilously close to Gil, Bright's tantalizing lips were nearly devoured. Gil made the first move, leaning his forehead until their brows touched, lifting Bright’s shaking hand and nestling it onto his own black hair. 

“Gil,” Malcolm gasped as his fingers slid into Gil’s hair. The small tap on his back was his warning before Gil stepped to the side and Malcolm moved to match his partner. Head bowed, he watched Gil’s legs which filled out his pants quite heartily. His belly dropped, swooning, as his gaze met Gil’s, foreheads joined, noses rubbing, magnetism crackling between their parted lips that made the hairs all over Malcolm’s body rise. Gil pulled away to spin Malcolm around, just to trap Malcolm in his arms again, drop a kiss onto Malcolm’s neck, licking Malcolm’s sweat from his teeth.

With his arms twisted, bound up, and his mind in a haze, Malcolm feared that he was transported into his nightmares, but for Gil holding him in the darkness, transforming each spasm into a sensual grind. The terror draining his body left a void and Malcolm yearned to fill it. He miscounted a step and backed into Gil, the curve of his ass catching on Gil’s thigh. Gil’s chest hitched when Malcolm recovered his balance and this time, deliberately snaked his body into the lines of Gil’s front, feeling where Gil swelled in his pants.

_Que traviesos somos y qué lindo se siente_   
_[How naughty we are and how beautiful it feels]_

Gil took hold of him again and picked up the tempo of their dance, moving them through the dance floor, spinning Bright until he was dizzy with Gil’s laughter enfolding him. Then Gil gripped him up, fist tight on the small of his silken back. Gil spotted a pair of sneaky lovers staggering out of a corner that was semi private from ceiling high partitions with panels bunched up like an accordion. Gil swept Bright into the space which was crowded with stacked chairs and stored water bottles. 

“Undo your belt,” Gil ordered, right into Bright’s ear. He ran his hand along the seam of Bright’s pants which stretched where Bright was hard from Gil’s teeth on his earlobe.

Bright did what he was told and Gil rewarded him, stuck his hand down Bright’s briefs. He breathed in the stink of strange pussy, watching Bright’s reaction to the musk of a raw fuck. Bright cried out from Gil possessing his loins. Gil covered Bright’s mouth and bit Bright’s shoulder through his shirt. Bright whimpered into Gil’s hand, drooling, paralyzed as he shuddered from Gil molesting him, arresting him, Gil singing into his ear and shushing him.

_Lower your voice, don't make noise_   
_Keep it on the low_   
_How can something feel so good_   
_Knowing that it's wrong Shhh_

Bright grabbed at Gil’s arm with both hands and he lapped at Gil’s palm and tongued between Gil’s knuckles which were slick with his come. Gil's filthy hand yanked the ends of Bright's hair. 

“We’re leaving. Meet. Car.” Gil pulled again, harder.

“Yes, Gil. I’ll follow you,” Bright promised earnestly, devoted eyes prickling with his tears, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his bared throat.

Gil left the private area first, making a stop in the bathroom to wash up. He sat in his Mustang, chewing nicotine gum. He’d quit, but he kept the gum in his car for situations when the craving hit. 

Bright, in his suit jacket, lightly rapped on the passenger door but he hesitated to clamber in. Rightly so, as Gil was going to grill him like he was a piece of meat. 

Gil rolled down the passenger window. “Get in. Want candy, kid?”

Resigning himself to the serious conversation that he was about to have with Gil, Bright settled into the passenger seat. He suckled the cherry sweet hard in his mouth.

“When’s the last time you slept?” Gil asked. “Your shakes are worse. Don’t tell me that my refusal to date you had that much of an effect.”

Bright shook his head. “I was dealing with my problems and it backfired. My sleep took a dive.”

“Are you on drugs?” questioned Gil.

“Nothing that wasn’t prescribed to me,” said Bright. He sighed. “If I tell you something, can you not get mad?”

“I’m already mad,” Gil said. “You and I are in so much trouble but we’re going to come back to that. What is this week's problem?”

“I called Claremont--”

“Hold on,” Gil said, pausing the conversation. He added another piece of Nicotine gum to his chew. 

“Jesus Fucking Christ. Tell me what the fuck happened,” Gil intoned.

“I called Claremont from a go phone, gave them an alias. They took a message from me. Few weeks go by. Then my go phone rang in my desk. I answered thinking it was a wrong number. I just said Hello, like a question. No one answered back but I could tell there was a person, not a bot. I hung up, dumped everything into the trash compactor. RIP Sleep,” Bright concluded wryly.

“You will never contact your father again, you fruit loop.” When that didn’t abate his anger, Gil grabbed the lapels of Bright’s jacket.

“It’s my life. The world went on without me in it,” Bright stated matter of fact.

“To hell with you, Bright. You will never see your father again,” Gil repeated because he knew the first warning always fell out of Bright’s head.

“And if I do, will I lose you?” Bright asked.

“You’ll lose your mind more like. I won’t stand by when you persist in detrimental choices. What did you chase that you forgot everyone who made sure you were safe from your father?”

“Danae Blanchard,” Bright gushed. “She’s the last victim that my father name dropped but she’s the only one who hasn’t had any family come forward. My search only turned up a few Blanchards in North Carolina, one living in New York. Then I looked up Danae, thinking I’d find a missing persons report for a Greco-American woman in the age pool from which the Surgeon culls his subjects.”

“Then I remembered. Danae is the mother of Perseus. The King of Argos had her placed into a box and thrown into the sea.”

“Clash of the Titans?” Gil asked.

“Yes! Dr. Whitly gave the name of a girl in a box which—” Bright stalled. “… which is a coded reference that John Watkins or his son would pick up on. Unless!!!!”

“BRIGHT, enough,” Gil said, hawking his nicotine gum into its empty carton packaging. “If you’re about to suggest that NYPD look for this poor girl, I can tell you that it’s not priority even if the Surgeon gave us her birth name and location, down to the longitude and latitude of where he buried her. The Surgeon’s been convicted. The public is served. He’s not going to be tried for the murders that he got away with. My precinct is fending off lawsuits from the Empire State shooting, paying off comp to our people who were impaired in that gunfight, and staying out of Homeland and ICE bull crap.”

“All you were thinking about is how right you are. Not the vic, not their fam. So all this, was for your father to see how bright you are?” Gil pointed out so sharply that he gutted Malcolm.

Bright stared at the chrome in Gil’s steering wheel. “Yes.”

Gil cupped his chin and lifted his face. “Where are you now, sweetheart?”

“If I could run off to the woods again and hike it to the mountains, I would. I’m going crazy in this city, Gil. I can’t get a grip. People aren’t how they look. I never know who I’m with or who’s with me.”

“I’m with you Bright.” Gil held the young man’s face.

Bright smoothed his palms along Gil’s supportive arms. “Be with me. Gil.”

“Damn it, Bright,” Gil uttered. He had walked into that one. He clapped his hand on the back of Bright’s neck and lightly butted heads. “I am too old to be in this much trouble with you.”

Bright looked not one bit concerned. In fact, he seemed inordinately pleased with himself. Gil kissed the sweetness from his red mouth before driving him to the Whitly house. Bright tasted like fruit which Gil never had before.

"That song that we danced to, what was it about? It sounded incredibly romantic," Bright asked during the drive. His hand grazed Gil's right arm.

"It's about a man and a woman who are in relationships," Gil answered, translating very, very loosely.

"... with each other?" Bright asked.

Gil chuckled, a languorous rolling sound that confirmed Bright's suspicions.

"Why do you Latinos play songs about cheaters for people getting married?!! Très tacky! Mucho gross!" Bright exclaimed. He shut up when his serious complaint just made Gil crack up harder.

Gil wasn't laughing as much when he watched Bright wobble into the house and he shifted gears to go back to his place alone. He was far, far too old to be in this much trouble.

Bright woke up the next day, thinking that he dreamed of Gil, before he saw the dark mark kissed into his shoulder. A cursory brush sent frissons of pleasure blooming everywhere that Gil loved him.

* * *

  
Upper East Side, Manhattan

Late Summer 2013

Gil locked his gun and badge inside his glove compartment before heading into the Whitly residence. Bright admitted him through the front door.

“Mother’s watching Thrones again. She’s pissed about Brienne leaving Jaime to Cersei so now would be your cue. Come into the living room. If you still want to do this?”

Cupping Bright’s face, Gil’s thumbs stroked his pale cheeks. Gil kissed away the worry line creasing Bright’s forehead. “It’s going to be alright. However long it takes, I’m not giving up. Are you with me on this?”

“Yes, Gil,” Bright promised, nuzzling into the palms warming his face. Gil brushed those sweet, pink lips just to feel them speaking his name.

If the situation weren’t so charged, Gil would’ve grabbed at the seat of Bright’s trousers when Bright crept ahead to rejoin his family in the living room. Gil caught his breath, made sure that he relaxed. He was annoyed that he was more keyed up for this than arresting murderers.

“Gil?” Jessica paused her show and placed the remote beside her empty wineglass and an uncapped bottle.

“We need to talk, in private,” Gil said. He saw that Douglas was present and changed his mind about telling Jessica right then and right there with her younger son also watching him.

“Who let you in?” Jessica asked.

“I did, Mother,” Malcolm said.

Jessica looked from Gil to Malcolm. She held her hand out to him, her fingers curling twice. “Phone. Now.”

“You should have called me first,” Jessica said. She led Gil to the study room, putting herself between him and the door. Though her matte lipstick faded from dinner and wine, she wore her dinner outfit, a little orange red number that went off shoulder. Malcolm’s phone pressed her bare arm as she crossed her arms.

“Not over the phone, not about this,” Gil said. He stopped hedging around the issue. “I want to date Malcolm. We decided not to go out behind your back.”

“You want to date,” Jessica repeated, stringing each word out like dirty unmentionables on a laundry line. 

“Yes, we do,” Gil said.

In response, Jessica stalked past him. She puffed a stillborn laugh as her strength failed her and she needed a breather to support herself against the surface of the ornate study desk.

“I have a few questions. Do answer them.” Jessica tilted her head coyly as she faced Gil, the sharp corners of her painted smile skewered upwards.

“When did you meet Malcolm?”

“1998.”

Jessica draped herself on the tabletop, angled in a comely way, her posture relaxed and her form poised. She tucked in her ankles, the hem of her dress falling just so. As Jessica swiped through Malcolm’s cell phone, her lacquered claw clicking against the touch screen, she asked in a flat drawl. “And what was your relationship status that year?”

“I was married to Jackie.”

Jessica sighed, a high rising sound that ended too short and on a wistful note. “That’s right. In yesteryear you were a young thing, married to your pregnant wife who chose her baby’s health over her own life when she was dying of cancer. She believed you’d be a _wonderful_ father.”

Without looking up from the cold blue light of Malcolm’s confiscated device, Jessica continued her mild chatter. “When you have three children, Sergeant Arroyo, it can be tough to stay current with all of them. I used to call Doug by his brother’s name though they are two distinctly different people. Refresh my memory because I should know this. What age was my little boy when you met him?”

Jackie’s memory pulped his defenses; a long pause preceded his answer as he fought to regain any shred of control over himself.

“Eleven,” said Gil. 

Jessica tucked her bottom lip between her teeth and slowly turned her head from side to side, the light in the room crowning her silken, black hair like a halo. “Get your goddamn facts in order. He was ten. You foul, vile, devious, washed up old _freak_.”

“My son was **ten**!!” Malcolm’s phone skittered on the floor, the slim case busting apart after denting the pastel wall. Jessica regained her composure and licked her teeth to remove any lipstick. 

“Are your species capable of anything outside of screwing or killing people?! How young was he when you fucked him, Sergeant? Does it _excite_ you that he’s younger than you thought? I missed so many of his firsts, please do share with me. I can grab one of my son’s action figures and you can point where on the doll--”

Though Gil anticipated her taunting, she riled up his pride and anger, yipping for a backhanded slap. In a fight with Jessica, the first one to throw hands was the loser. He would lose Malcolm in one strike.

Gil headed off her mockery. “For Christ’s sake, Jessica. If you’re putting me on trial, you better damn well know the answers before you knock yourself out taking a swing at me!”

“Have you had sex with my child?” Jessica thrust out her chin and looked down on him.

“I haven’t,” Gil answered.

“Has my child had sex with you?” Jessica quickly rejoined.

“No. It’s a team effort between two adults. He is not a child,” Gil said, lifting his eyes to heaven.

“Solely for the sake of posterity, who kissed first?” She had him there.

“I did,” Gil admitted. He would own his role for kicking off a high stakes love affair. “I shouldn’t have done it. We talked it over and what it would mean for both of us and our families if we committed long term. I’m serious about becoming Malcolm’s partner.”

Jessica held up a polished finger. “I’m this close to phoning my friend who knows your Commissioner. From here on out, Malcolm is not to be alone with you, Sergeant Arroyo. Nor will he have the privilege of privately communicating with you. In response to your candid breach of trust, you will be blocked from all of my children’s social media accounts. My children, Sergeant. I advise you to lose Malcolm’s number. I will appropriate his phone and switch him to a new line with different digits. God help you if he’s sent you nudes.” 

Dr. Whitly had his scalpel just as Jessica had her way with words. In the turn of a heel, Jessica could leave a man for dead.

“Bright treats his photo gallery like it’s public record, especially after Edward Snowden blew up the NSA,” Gil pointed out. “Says it makes him want to head for the hills again.”

Fear blanched Jessica’s skin. “D-did Malcolm tell you that he would leave Manhattan?”

“You know how he is. When Bright gets inspired, he’ll sit on it, obsessing in his head without a word to anyone,” Gil said, shrugging his hands at the level of his hip. “Like I said, we talked. If I were his partner, he would have to wait on me before jumping into his next big decision. He’d have the right to push me if I’m not getting us anywhere.”

“How far do you plan to take your affair with Malcolm?” Jessica flicked her hair, raised her bust, and stood with her hands on her hips, her energy decisive and her attractive form expansive.

“We were having talks, but if we work out the way I think we will, I would ask him to marry me,” said Gil.

Jessica’s chest rose and fell dramatically, her nose slanted as though she detected garbage. 

“This situation is worst than I had dared believe. Distasteful as I find it, I could understand the two of you holing up in a BnB or gallivanting to Brokeback Mountain and riding it out. Yet you want a relationship.” Jessica squinted very critically at Gil before her ring fingers pressed the delicate folds of her jet lined eyes. She poured herself a Scotch from the highball station also in the study room.

“Why did you bother giving him back when you were going to take him from me?” The crystal glass sat in her right palm, arm bent into her bosom like a stricken bird. Her glass trembled in her hand, steadying when she drank. Her left hand clutched her right elbow, like the clasp of a purse straining to hold everything inside.

“I meant to do the right thing. I didn’t.” Gil made no excuses.

“You lovesick fool,” Jessica croaked into her glass when Gil took her into his arms. Her hair entangled beneath his beard as his steady hands stroked along her shoulder blades. He smelled of the cologne which she bought him.

“I can’t protect you both from my beloved husband. I’ll funnel whatever moneys I can find into the Caymans but Malcolm loses his entire inheritance from Martin the day he marries you. That might appease Martin, if he disinherits our firstborn.” Jessica licked her lips and shut her eyes, shaking in the grips of her worst imaginings. “Martin would kill before he let you see a dime of his assets, Gil.”

“That’s impossible. He’s in the loony bin,” said Gil.

“He could incite civil difficulties for our family,” explained Jessica.

He drew away from Jessica, pacing as he considered possibilities that he hadn’t factored. Gil hadn’t broached the topic of wedding and marriage with Malcolm, preferring to pour their focus into their next realistic step. 

“I won’t screw up his inheritance, Jessica. Forget it; I won’t take Malcolm to city hall. A poor marriage would sink him. He’ll need that cash later when I’ve kicked the bucket and his mind goes with age.”

Jessica’s brows raised, her jaw dropped as she witnessed the extent of Gil’s devotion and the honorable direction that he would take Malcolm, if given a chance.

“Real shocker, huh? Bright is 45 if I make it to 70. I’ll have to outlive his father before I get my ring on his finger,” Gil mused aloud, his eyes glinting with determination as he thoughtfully stroked his beard.

“You’re serial,” observed Jessica. "You're a serial monogamist."

“Do you see Ainsley or Douglas stepping up to oversee his care if his mental issues come to a head? If he needs to be institutionalized for his own safety and I’m not around and you’ve finally succeeded in drinking yourself to death? What if they stick him in a bottom rung facility to pinch pennies? Hell no. He needs to be where they put you crazy rich folks.”

“Palm Springs,” quipped Jessica. She finished her Scotch and stepped over Malcolm’s shattered phone. “I’ve heard enough, Sergeant. I’m ready to deal with my son.”

Once he figured that Jessica was headed to the living room, Gil matched her stride and stayed ahead of her until he could get to Malcolm.

“Mother,” Malcolm said when he caught sight of them. He was playing cards with Douglas in the living room with the TV going. 

FOX news cycled through recaps of President Obama’s speech on Syria, this year’s 9/11 memorial service, Mayor Bloomberg’s embarrassing $350,000 blunder in Colorado against the NRA, and to no one’s surprise, Weiner did not top the mayoral primary.

Douglas was disrespectfully cleaning out his elder. Chips stacked higher than Malcolm, Douglas wore a green visor strapped to his head, a Red Vine licorice poking out the corner of his mouth. He tapped the felt top surface twice in warning, his hand curled into bull horns aimed at Malcolm who stood up to leave the playing table.

“You lose, House rules,” Douglas said.

“Good game.” Malcolm slid a few big bills across the green felt to Douglas before shoving the visor down Douglas’s thin nose.

“You’re short,” Douglas whined, throwing his visor to the Oriental rug.

Malcolm leaned in and pressed his cheek to his little brother’s. Quietly, he informed Douglas, “I know who jerked it on mother’s drapes in the Lautrec guest room, Dougie boy. Semen corrodes fabric. I would allocate your winnings to replace the lining before mother notices the light shining out of your personal signature.”

“Jubilee. Nothing owed!” Douglas exclaimed, fleeing the living room with his spoils.

Gil placed his hand on the back of Malcolm’s neck. “You’re good for your little bro, you know that?”

Malcolm remained tense despite Gil’s thumb stroking his taut muscles, his terminally curious expression honed on his mother Jessica.

“Saturdays. Saturdays only, when your man friend is available, Sergeant Arroyo will meet you here. Adolpho will drive the both of you to your evening reservations. Adolpho will drive you wherever else you wish to go after dinner, but he will return here with the both of you. Malcolm is on my porch by midnight at the latest.”

“No phone calls between the two of you. No online posts. No photos of you on any feeds. The sergeant will contact me when he can’t make Saturday due to emergency. Sergeant Arroyo may call on you at this house during reasonable hours any day of the week and request to speak with you in-person. You will toe the line and conduct yourselves beyond reproach. Bottom line: **I can sink this ship with impunity.** ” Jessica crossed her arms, mint green acrylic nails on display, hip thrust out, her lashes in a barbed line as she glared between her son and her son’s tentatively approved boyfriend.

“Really?” Malcolm uttered, his expression elated. 

“We can date!!” He pulled his mother into a hug, her dimpled chin tucked over his shoulder, swaying side to side in a happy dance. 

Gil smiled from the very brief but euphoric tenderness that graced Jessica’s porcelain face. Her left hand, bearing her platinum wedding band, stroked down Malcolm’s soft hair, fingers splayed as she sealed a kiss on Malcolm’s cheek with a matte coral pink lip.

“I can work with that,” Gil said, more stunned than if Jessica had spiked her heel between his eyes. Jessica wouldn’t let her son date a loser, which meant that Gil would keep his position without getting blue balled for promotions. With his rotating shifts, barring huge operation stake outs or state of emergencies, Gil wouldn’t nail every Saturday night but he planned to make his time with Malcolm count in a big way. 

“Your first date starts this Saturday. I’ll text Sergeant Arroyo this month’s itinerary,” Jessica informed them.

“Itinerary? For less than one day, why couldn’t we make our own plans? How the hell do you have an itinerary when you just found out about us?” Gil demanded.

“When’s the last time you’ve played the field, Sergeant?” Jessica retorted.

Malcolm clapped a hand over his forehead. “Mother, please.”

“You’re old and you work full time which means you’re already disadvantaged when it comes to planning activities that are variable, imaginative, and engaging. My son will have only the best experiences. What did you have intended that’s not dinner, drinks, dancing or… dalliances?” Jessica asked huffily.

“Dalliances?” Gil repeated. “You know damn well that’s not happening with your driver chaperoning us.”

Malcolm’s hair fell loose over both hands which were covering his face. “If this is an elaborate hallucination, I’m ready for my metaphorical stabbing. Or more intensive therapy.”

“Now there’s an idea. If you two survive couples’ therapy, then you’re certainly meant to be,” Jessica drawled. “How about you walk your man friend to the door and say good night, Malcolm?”

Gil wasn’t finished with the discussion on Jessica’s itineraries. He would have pushed back harder if not for Bright pressing into his left side and brushing Gil’s hand.

“Do I show up here at 7 on Saturday or what?” Gil asked while Jessica mounted the stairs to the second level.

“I’ll send you the itinerary. Be sure to check!” Jessica called down, sing song, not slowing her climb for any old guy.

“I believe Mother may be in search of her little helpers,” said Malcolm. 

“Her little helpers?” Gil didn't like the sound of that.

“Oh yes, Barb, Val, Xander, and Quinn. But Quinn only shows up for an emergency cocktail party,” Malcolm said whimsically. He pulled forward and looked over his shoulder at Gil, his levity and mischief giving way to innocent tenderness when he peeked at their linked arms where Gil’s left hand cradled his right, the one prone to shakes.

“Bright, are you alright?” Gil asked, his attention on the tremors. He drew Malcolm’s hand to his chin, kissing it better.

“What do you plan to do with me?” Malcolm asked, cocking his head, his hair falling from his ear and into his eye.

“Dinner, dancing, loosen you up with drinks,” Gil said.

“How very imaginative. Engaging,” Malcolm said, his shoulders moving as they laughed.

“MALCOLM! Send the old man on his way!” They heard Jessica yell.

Too soon, before he was ready to part, Malcolm was closing the door on Gil. Gil slanted to the left of the door and pecked a kiss onto his lips. Malcolm trotted to the window facing the street where Gil parked, just to watch his boyfriend’s black convertible Mustang pull out. His first boyfriend. Malcolm’s long sigh faded into a frustrated groan. He didn’t have a clue on how he was going to navigate his first serious relationship without a phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyricstranslate: Thanks to marifen for Spanish lyrics to Los Infieles by Aventura. Thanks to AmandaVargas for English translation.
> 
> Gil should not have left Malcolm alone post-domming. He would have gone back if Malcolm took too long.


	12. Departure from Reality

Fall 2014

Gil was looking at plates of sliced pork, green beans, and rice like how Jackie cooked it.

“Will you marry me?” Bright was on bended knee. They were in the Whitlys kitchen, a table richly bouqueted with flowers and candles and chilled wine.

“Oh, sweetheart. We can’t," Gil said dejectedly. His face had lit up as they both held their breaths.

“Wait, so you do want to.” Bright scrutinized him, intent on solving the mystery.

“I can’t get you disinherited, Bright. You won’t get a dime from your father.”

“I’m okay with that. Don’t want ‘em,” Bright said flippantly. “It’s chump change.”

Bright went on at the expression dawning on Gil’s face. “Father set aside maybe tens of thousands for me but it’s nothing compared to the Milton money.”

Gil squinted. “Milton money?”

Bright nodded, all assurance as he informed Gil of the millions that he was worth, bequeathed from grandparents.

Bright had maybe 90 seconds to talk down Gil from coming after his other parent Jessica, but he eventually got the yes. After all, _someone_ had to foot the bill for the wedding of the season that no one who was anybody in NYC would miss out on duh.

* * *

Spring 2015

Malcolm had driven for the linear stretches of highway but Gil had taken the Mustang up the mountain passes with twisted guard rails, allowing Malcolm to sigh over his view of the smoky blue Adirondacks, the yellow green valleys, and tufts of clouds. Gil slowed the Mustang as they followed a winding driveway bordered by Eastern white pines, cedars, and spruce. Once they were crawling at reduced speeds, Gil lowered the windows and smiled when the pine and cedar scented air tussled Malcolm’s brown hair. 

Malcolm unloaded their compact luggage from the car while Gil stretched and aired out from the trickier leg of the trip. 

Visible from where Gil parked, the White Lodge had a great wooden entryway with large blue casement windows accented by blue diamond pattern grids on the glass. The glass reflected the fleeced clouds and the golden boughs of nearby young birch.

The wooded scent of coniferous trees followed Gil and Malcolm from the entryway, down the walkway carpeted with earth-toned geometric patterns, and into the lobby area which smelled of coffee, baked sweets, and maple syrup. Malcolm watched Gil take in the wood beam ceiling, the polished timber walls, the mismatched stone tile flooring, and the antlered light fixtures.

“Arroyos?” the concierge confirmed when Malcolm gave their reservation number.

“Yes, we’re Gil and Malcolm Arroyo.” Gil’s hand pressed Malcolm’s lower back.

“Got it. The Deluxe One Bedroom Suite,” responded the concierge. “Your valet will show you to your suite. Please enjoy your stay. And congratulations on your nuptials!”

“One bed?” Malcolm repeated. “Excuse me, I called in for the Grand Two Bedroom Suite. For medical reasons, I need my own bed.”

“Did you? I apologize, Mr. Arroyo. We have it noted here that you’re newlyweds. Staff must have booked you under the assumption that you’d share a bedroom. I’m so sorry. We can upgrade you to the Superior Master Suite, but the Grand Lodge and Presidential which have multiple bedrooms are all reserved. We have quite a few retirees and their grandchildren this weekend.”

“Do we have a long couch?” asked Gil.

“Yes, all suites have a parlor area with cushioned lounges,” answered the concierge

“I’ll take the couch. No upgrade necessary, I want to settle in,” Gil said. He bit back a yawn.

“But Gil. One bed? Whatever will we do?” Malcolm flapped his mouth.

Gil put his hand along the collar of Malcolm’s light jacket. “We’re going to enjoy ourselves, Bright.”

The valet carted their belongings, leaving Gil free to hold hands with Malcolm in the narrow elevator. Despite being limited to one bedroom, their suite was larger than Gil’s previous apartment in Brooklyn. Besides a king sized bed seated in a four poster frame, they had one bathroom and a half, a full kitchen area with electric appliances and a dining table that could fit eight chairs. If the view from the humongous picture windows wasn’t enough, they were free to step onto a deck with wicker furniture and high-backed patio chairs painted in cheery colors.

Malcolm bounced into the bathroom to relieve himself and wash his face in one of two sinks set in brown marble. Malcolm felt his ears warm up when he saw the arched stone accent wall which contained the walk-in shower and a separate large white tub, room for two, with brass fixtures adjacent to picture windows overlooking slopes of everwood trees. They would bathe later tonight. He and Gil had agreed to nap before eating in the dining room.

Gil was rigging up leather sleep restraints on the walnut bed frame. The case for Malcolm’s mouth guard was already on a nightstand. Malcolm slid the leather cuffs onto his wrists and knelt on the bed. He was in his briefs and a soft thin white shirt.

Gil tucked him in, pulling the covers up to his chest and looping the tethers through the break-away fasteners on Malcolm’s cuffs.

“How is it?” Gil asked. He rubbed at Malcolm’s side, feeling for excess tension. “You won’t be able to get your arms any lower than this. Wide bed.”

“I’m comfortable. I don’t think I’ll be under for too long. I’m dying to check out the trails around here,” Malcolm said, kicking his feet.

“We’ve been up since 4, better to relax before you stretch your legs. What if you poop out a few miles down?” Gil said deadpan. He stripped down to his boxers and shimmied under the covers, lying down on his side to face Malcolm. His watch glimmered on his brown arm. Gil reached out to touch Malcolm’s face.

“Can you sleep?” Gil said.

“I can dream about it,” answered Malcolm. “Pinch me, I’m dreaming now, I’m sure of it. Did I finally lose my mind at my mother’s wedding? Is my body in the psych ward strapped to a patient bed?”

Gil laughed. “Your mother’s wedding?”

“We may have been the ones exchanging vows, but it was most certainly mother’s wedding,” he muttered. Malcolm shook his head. “This is the first time I’ve been alone with you for nineteen months and we’re really going to nap?”

“Wide bed. Plenty of space. Big enough for the both of us, Bright,” Gil said. Gil’s hand dipped under the covers, a shadow that Malcolm watched as thick fingers trailed along his waist.

The tethers stretched as Malcolm arched into Gil’s unseen touch.

“What is your rush?” Gil teased. He watched the light play upon the contours of Malcolm’s neck. Malcolm squawked when he felt the pinch, betrayal darkening his gaze.

“Fine,” Malcolm pouted, slackening into the mattress.

“I wasn’t the one who slept through our wedding night,” Gil pointed out. “So now what are you going to do?”

“Wait for Gil,” Malcolm said, smiling. His eyes creased and his teeth flashed as he radiated irresistible happiness. Gil brushed the hair from his lashes and kissed him. His fingers dug into Malcolm’s brown hair. 

Malcolm pulled on his bonds, moaning as Gil’s hands slid up his shirt. He was starving for every brush of skin, for Gil’s weight on him, Gil’s cologne flooding his senses. Gil’s mouth pressed Malcolm’s neck, his beard trailing his skin and raising goosebumps all over. 

“Wait, Gil,” Malcolm gasped but Gil’s hands pulled down his briefs. Gil held Malcolm’s firm cock, fingered the head of him.

“What in the—” Gil sat up and pulled back the covers. 

Malcolm raised his brows and spread his legs wider, lids drooping heavily as the covers stroked his skin and Gil’s eyes raked over his nakedness. He winked at Gil, his tongue licking his teeth.

“When did you get this done?” Gil asked. His fingers stroked Malcolm’s erect cock, pulled at the titanium bar piercing. “I would have noticed if you had this at JT’s party.”

“My mommy issues coming to a head,” Malcolm answered. He sucked air through his teeth as Gil played with the pierce. “I got mad, okay? Grown man. Me thirteen months into my first job and mother controlled my dating life. I didn’t see you for weeks when you were covering for all those officers on top of Eric Garner. I had the thought that if I did something crazy like get a tattoo, it wouldn’t matter.”

Malcolm peeked at Gil with his head tilted. “I figured you’d find out later tonight. Do you like it?”

“You’re a bad little boy. Don’t keep this crap to yourself, Bright.” Gil straddled Malcolm’s chest, stroking his own erect cock. Malcolm was about eight inches, not particularly fat, and he shaved. In comparison, Gil had a few more inches than Bright and his gorgeous, darker, fuller cock was curved like a branch hanging tantalizingly close to Malcolm’s parted mouth. Malcolm was salivating from the smell of Gil’s flesh, like breathing over the most delicious warmed soup and he strained to drink it down.

“Bright, I got something for ya,” Gil said. He got his hands firmly into the roots of Malcolm’s hair, dipping his cock into sweet, heated wetness. Gil’s head lulled back, biting his tongue, from Malcolm’s cheeks suckling him.

Gil withdrew, shivered from the air cooling on his sensitive skin.

“Gil,” Malcolm whined.

“You can have all this, if you’re a good boy. Tell me if you’ve got other surprises,” Gil said.

Malcolm considered the position he was in. “I don’t have a gag reflex.”

* * *

He wore nothing but his untethered leather cuffs. Malcolm arched, dipped his head back, exposing his neck, the back of his throat open as his jaws unhinged and his own tongue betrayed him. Malcolm let slip a secret word inside his heart that he never intended to utter in his lover's hearing.

"What," reacted Gil.

Malcolm skipped the denials and lying, instead clamming up and immediately shoving at Gil to leave the bed, avoid the explanations, figure out better answers. The moment was, to him, not salvageable.

Gil grabbed his arms and wrestled Malcolm, grinding down to remind the young man just who owned him. A wanting cry escaped Malcolm's lips as his chest hitched, dazed by Gil's cock claiming him deeper as he struggled.

"C'mon, say it again," Gil urged. His fingers lay on Malcolm's cheek, flushed hot from their fucking. Gil's thumb pressed the vulnerable flesh in the underside of Malcolm's jaw. 

"...daddy," Malcolm moaned through clenched teeth and sloppy lips.

Gil's mind raced. His first thought, which made his cock so hard he wanted to die, was that Bright called him Daddy. Then the devil whispered to the cracks in his heart, and Gil didn't want it to be true, that maybe Bright's father had broken in his own child and cast his own son into truly perverse debasements.

Their future together, every pleasurable act that came of their love, rested on how Gil responded. Gil was tempted to let Bright run off and keep his secrets and pretend he had misheard. But Gil saw the doubt falling like a shaded hood over Bright's beautiful eyes, deadening the passion, and knew that they both needed to go deeper or else the sleeping horrors of Bright's past would destroy everything. Already, Gil saw Bright's desire for self-destruction taking over.

Truth, it was. Gil cleared his mind and focused on touching Bright, opening him with his cock, plying Bright with sharp kisses on the underside of his pinned down arms, sucking marks into his neck, breathing hot on his pink ear.

"Who's Daddy?" Gil began. He followed his line of questioning with a tongue swirled into Bright's ear hole.

Bright shuddered all over and he canted his hips, wrapping his legs around Gil's waist, digging in his heels to get their bodies flush.

"Christ, fuck," Gil swore, as Bright flexed around his cock. He choked Bright, growling when he felt muscles rippling, heated flesh on his cock overpowering his discipline, his determination to hold back, not to release just yet.

"You're Daddy," Malcolm whispered.

Gil fisted his hand in Bright's hair, heard the pained cries, felt the moment his control broke. He was coming.

"Who's daddy? Who?" he grunted, muscles locking up, mind sauced in bliss, screwing up his face to keep his eyes open.

"You're Daddy. You are," Bright cried, bucking himself helplessly. He couldn't jerk off with Gil on top of him. In desperation, he choked out brokenly, "Daddy!"

Gil emptied himself, reeling from how fast he came. Before he talked himself out of it, he withdrew and crept down Bright's splayed legs.

Bright's cock was sticky and harder than Gil had ever felt it. He tasted cum as he got his lips around the head of Bright's cock and pumped his head a couple times. His lips rubbed along the delicate skin, suckling the top, tongue flicking Bright's piercing between his teeth like a cherry stem.

Bright tapped his shoulder urgently. Gil stopped mouthing his cock and said, "Daddy wants you--"

Bright came all over himself, screaming like Gil cut him open. Tremors shook his thighs and his eyes watered as Gil kissed behind his knee, sensitive to the beard hairs scratching his skin.

"Gil," Malcolm said, and those puppy eyes were back.

Gil pounced on him, taking a kiss while Bright's heart thrummed like a scared bird. He took Bright into his arms, hand beneath the soft mess of brown hair and the other cupping Bright's cheek while thumbing the skin behind Bright's ear.

"I'm Daddy, now," Gil said.

Bright laid his palm along Gil's jaw, feeling the whiskers. A tear trickled down. His eyes were like clear lakes and Gil could see into their depths, knew if he could sink in over and over, it would be a warm and sweet embrace.

"Daddy," Malcolm repeated. He waited for Gil to be disgusted or worried about him. Bring up therapy. Put on clothes, another layer between them to keep them apart.

If anything, Gil seemed relieved and grateful and he wanted another sloppy open kiss, which Malcolm happily gave.

"You're OK with me...?" Malcolm fished for words. "...being weird in bed?"

They were lying down on their sides, facing each other. Gil grabbed his hand for another scratchy kiss, making Bright melt. His brown hair fell into his face but his eyes peeked through true and blue.

"The daddy thing is probably the most normal I've ever seen you," Gil admitted, chuckling. 

Bright's mouth popped open indignantly. He ducked his head, hiding his pout in his pillow, when Gil reached to tuck back his wild hair. Bright turned his back to Gil in a show of ruffled feelings.

Gil pulled him close, teasing Bright's nape with tongue and lips. Bright's heart fluttered from his lover's strength, his lover's desire for them to join. Gil went for the lube. He had Bright by the balls which he cupped and fondled. He tightened his fingers on Bright's cock and thumbed the fleshy tip.

"Daddy," Bright squealed. His hips jerked, unable to remain still. The metal links on his cuffs clinked as he moved.

Gil's low laugh caressed a needful sin pulsing thicky good down his neck to his calves.

"Shhh, that's right. Daddy feels good, yeah?" Gil said.

Though Gil hadn't re-armed, wasn't yet ready to pound Bright into the bed, he was very much turned on. He got a sick thrill from acting on Bright's perverted fantasy about him. Pure filth dripped from Gil's mouth like sticky nectar.

Bright swelled and twitched from aggressive sexual touches, spreading himself like a bird frantic for release. Gil had him pinned, edged him, determined to outshine every one of Bright’s wet dreams.

"You wanna make Daddy happy?” Gil asked.

“Yes, Daddy! I want to please!” Bright begged.

“Get off for me, sweetheart," Gil commanded.

Bright came with his mouth gaped, crying Daddy. Gil smiled big from how intensely Bright's heart pounded for him. Gil kissed Bright's feverish neck, splaying a hand over his chest to steady him. When Bright was a puddle, Gil grabbed his head, fucked up his hair, caging him with wet and heavy kisses.

* * *

When he was a child, he ran to a mountain. Because of the dangers and risking his own life, making his own choices, Malcolm found courage to leap forward. Terror gripped him when he inevitably fell, dashed himself to pieces for a man like Gil, immovable as a rock. 

Gil was tough, brittle, slowly hollowed out by unspoken grief that hours of work, job well done, never satisfied. Then Malcolm landed in a murderous winter, wild and wounded and easy to break. Malcolm, hidden, beaten, giving, tempting Gil to compromise his own nature, to choose differently from the straight life for which Gil had already sacrificed so much.

Gil took Malcolm in a hard embrace, felt the breath of life in his sweetheart. They were naked in bed and not inclined to bullshit outside distractions. Nothing was more important to Gil than getting Bright on top of him.

Malcolm sat astride, his knees rouged from jerking in the sheets. He slid his fingers out of his hole, spreading his thighs, showing Gil how deep they could go. Gil cursed and locked his hands on Bright's ass. Malcolm bit his red lips, highly attuned to the hair on Gil's forearms brushing his skin, Gil's strength moving him. Malcolm stretched wide, gasping as Gil fucked him breathless. He felt as though he straddled a world wonder; he was quaking as though the foundations of earth thrust him to joyful peaks.

Malcolm bent down and kissed at Gil's parted mouth. Malcolm's palms flattened on Gil's shoulders, fingers squeezing and toes curling, as his body took it.

"It feels good to love you, Bright," Gil said, clutching that gorgeous face.

Malcolm placed his hands over Gil's, fingers sinking in-between where Gil reverently held him.

"Love me, Daddy," Malcolm pleaded. He didn't want it from anyone else but Gil.

Gil was so fucking hot for it. Bright hardly asked for much and when he did, he wanted it big. Gil's fingers tangled in Bright's hair, intentionally pulling the roots to make Bright's hips pump quickly. Bright was into it, his blue eyes luminous from the tears that gathered when Gil hurt him.

"Daddy." He kept calling for Gil over and over as though his fucked hole pulling in Gil's cock weren't enough.

Those pretty pink lips mouthed "Daddy" into Gil's mouth. Gil moaned, gripped up Bright's nape, dug his fingers in, clamping Bright's ass, knowing he would leave damning prints on milky white skin.

Bright shook all over and Gil surged one final time, knowing how much Bright especially loved creaming himself with Gil hard up his ass. Bright kept his eyes peeled to watch Gil coming inside his raw, used sex.

A pair of curved lines trailed the outer corners of Bright's eyes. Brackets formed around his wasted grin. More ridges contorted his brow. Bright's slick, brown hair fell forward, the ends curled into the dark shadows under his eyes. His bottom lashes were still damp from Gil's cock stretching him past the point of pain.

Gil thumbed at Bright's nose, pulling the hair out of that blissed out, dimpled face. Bright settled onto Gil's shoulder, nosing at Gil's cheek and tonguing Gil's ear lobe, savoring the musk of their intense passion.

Gil squeezed Bright's bicep and then his fingers loosely curled on the back of Bright's neck. His other arm pressed the curve of Bright's spine. Gil felt his lover's heart, knew it was his. He accepted it, let it fill him completely. 

Malcolm nested in a warm hollow that was just for him. A secret, a mystery, a living spring that he'd always seek. He found his mountain and there wasn't any better place to take shelter.

Nothing else would move them because together, at long last, they were home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gil drives what looks to be a 1967 Pontiac Lemans in the show. I said black Mustang because I thought the horse themed brand name goes along with Malcolm and Gil's journey back into nature, their own natures and wilderness.
> 
> Jackie died three years before the show's pilot episode took place. This fic places her death in early 2000s. Bad, bad me. 
> 
> This has been interesting, in terms of writing two bi men. I decided that Gil would be the complicated one. He's a seasoned guy.
> 
> I also decided that because Malcolm went through his development away from privileged Helicopter Parenting, he suffered physical malnourishment but did not internalize ADDITIONAL toxic adult issues. Most of all: nada zero zilch nil nyet quality time with serial killer father!!
> 
> Malcolm bloomed like a wildflower and Gil stayed tough in the city fighting crime. I'm soft, so soft, for Venus/Mars dynamics.
> 
> I loved framing this fic in the late 90s and mid 2000s. Their romance was a time capsule of my fave years to be alive. I was totally listening to the Pumpkins song 1979 when I wrote Malcolm playing as a child. 
> 
> I also enjoyed Dominican music and drooling at latinx recipes to describe Gil and Jackie's love. As an anime fic author, I was challenged to world build with existing cultures. I owe a lot of my research to Google Maps, lyricstranslate, and steamykitchen. And thanks to tumblr for verifying the serial killer details for me.
> 
> Gosh, I worked so hard to remove the Surrogate Father thing and then I liberally added Daddy kink woops.
> 
> If you cried like a lot, it's because I hurted my own feelings in my quest to build romantic tension.
> 
> Build this ship, they said. Do what you love, they said. 
> 
> XXX


End file.
